


Out of Hell, Out of Heaven

by lar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, First Time, M/M, Pining, Romance, student!John, tutor!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 46,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lar/pseuds/lar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, who is a sixth-former in a small town, is utterly bored of life. When he meets his alluring new tutor Sherlock, a third year university student, he quickly falls in love with him. However all Sherlock wants is to have sex once and be left alone. Will John be able to break through his defenses?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Into Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unbeta'd and any criticism is welcome! Thank you!

John’s fingers moved on the desk with the speed of a glacier, tapping a rhythm that had been stuck in his head for the past month. He didn’t know what song it was but he wasn’t about to spare any thought to it. He knew it would be playing in his head over and over again for at the very least another decade because that was how time moved in this godforsaken place that people were bold enough to call a town. It wasn’t a town. Not really. It was a small muddy hole that was somehow above the ground and its population consisted of people, whose every motion was equivalent to someone, who knew how to live, taking a step in a swamp.

He knew there were people like him out there, people who couldn’t bear the lifelessness places like his hometown promoted. However this knowledge remained theoretical even at the eighteenth year of his life. He remembered a few people from when he was younger, who had disappeared as soon as they were old enough to leave, probably off to greener - and less muddy - pastures. He wasn’t acquainted with any of those men and women but every once in a while, he would dream of them and in every one of those dreams, one of them would be taking John along on an adventure to a bright city, brimming with life. Of course all this ever achieved was taking his quiet boredom to previously unseen levels.

The current dose of boredom which the chemistry class provided John with was nothing new however. It’s not that he hated the subject or his teacher or any of the classmates that sat around him, it was just that he was utterly bored of life. His friends, who were content; his family, who were oblivious; his teammates, who didn’t think of anything other than rugby…

...well and girls. Girls were the only topic that slightly interested John. He didn’t like the tedious formalities that were expected of him in a relationship but he knew he had to put up with it anywhere in the world, if he wanted to have sex. So he put up with it. In fact he had been putting up with it for the past year and now he had to plan a romantic evening for his anniversary with Jeanette, which was tomorrow. Maybe he could trick Molly into planning it for him so he could keep his date for tonight. He was excited about tonight. Tonight he was going to lie down and gaze at the ceiling above his bed for hours. Who could ever accuse him of not being a romantic?

 

After the class, he started on his way home, lugging himself out of the school and through the town center, when he remembered he was meant to be meeting his new tutor today. He let out a put upon sigh as he turned back to enter the small café he had just passed by, where the meeting was supposed to happen. He had been so looking forward to his rendezvous with the ceiling!

As soon as he walked in, he caught sight of the weird boy, who had been a fixture in his escapist dreams for the past three years. Only now John couldn’t bring himself to call him a boy. He had become a beautiful young man. He was gracefully reclining in his chair, looking as bored as John usually felt. What was he doing back here? John assumed he had run off to a university somewhere in a big city when he didn’t come across him around town anymore. He had no idea what his name was. Well he had had no idea what his name was. Now he was beginning to suspect he would be tutored by this strange man who was drawing John to him like a moth to a flame.

He looked at Sherlock Holmes and for the first time since he became aware how sluggishly the time moved, he felt giddy. Giddy! He was excited about something. He wasn’t willing to lose another second, standing at the door and staring at the man, and without preamble, pulled the chair next to Sherlock and flopped down onto it.

Sherlock looked startled for a passing moment but in the next instant he was as put together as he had been when John entered the café, like a movie star waiting for his interviewer to arrive.

“Ah finally. I was beginning to think this was an elaborate attempt to get rid of me by boring me death.”

John grinned at that. “I can’t promise it’s not. Are you willing to risk everything instead of just turning down my parents? We can go our separate ways peacefully. No one would have to get hurt.”

Sherlock stared at John suspiciously for a bit.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. I’ll be your tutor until the next school year, when I can leave this wretched hellhole. Without any forwarding address this time.”

“Yeah I know who you are. Maybe you can take me with you on your way out.”

John continued to grin at him cheekily, which looked like it was only serving to confuse Sherlock. He cleared his throat and took a sip from his coffee.

“Right. Okay. So we’ll start with chemistry today.”

John made a disgusted sound as a reflex and saw that that had been a misstep. Sherlock was looking at him with something similar to disdain in his eyes now.

 

He quickly took out his books and started asking questions to Sherlock about problems he didn’t even try to solve before. His parents had told him that his tutor was clever but they clearly had no idea as to how much. Sherlock was in a class of his own. His intelligence could make the combined IQ’s of all the townsfolk look as if they were one monkey.

 

“Why are you doing this?”

John looked up from his book at the question. “Hm?”

“You don’t need a tutor. You can-”  Sherlock cut himself off as understanding dawned on his face. John knew that he had proven himself. Sherlock could probably tell all the real reasons behind why his parents wrongly assumed he needed a tutor. John certainly didn’t want Sherlock to think he was an idiot.

“You can go, hang out with your friends or whatever it is that you do, if you want. I can tell my parents we’re studying. We don’t *really* need to be here.”

“No no! I want to!” The words slipped out of John’s mouth before he realized what he was saying. Panicking was not the way to impress this man. He needed to be in control of his actions. “I mean I think I need it. I’m not good at studying by myself. Unless you don’t want to?”

“No, it’s-fine.”

John smiled at him with relief. Sherlock, however, looked a little awkward. John thought it was an adorable look on him as it contrasted with the way he had been holding himself for the past hour. He wanted to find out more about this distant creature. Their study session was over but maybe he could get Sherlock to stay for a bit longer.

“I’m gonna get a cup of coffee. Do you want one?”

After a second of staring at John, he nodded.

 

When he got back to the table with two cups of coffee, Sherlock was back to his aloof demeanour.

John decided to take a chance. “So why are you back here?

Sherlock looked at him with no interest in his features. “Does it matter?”

“I just don’t see someone like you coming back here willingly.”

“Someone like me...” he muttered into his coffee cup, then looked up at John with an amused expression, “You’re not here willingly either.”

John chuckled. “No I’m not.”

“Why not? You have a nice family, you’re, generally speaking, good at school, you have friends and a girlfriend who has sex with you. What more could you want?”

John’s ears turned red. “How do you know about-about the sex?”

“There are condoms in your wallet, more than one and one of them is an empty package.” John was gaping at him now. “I saw them when you were paying for the coffee.”

John laughed. “Well the sex is good I have to admit but I’d rather be in London having sex than here.”

“And what about your girlfriend?”

“She wants to go to London too.”

“Ah. That’s fortunate.”

“Yeah it is.”

 

John smiled at him once again before he took another sip of his coffee. Maybe he could follow Sherlock to  wherever he went to university next year, even it wasn’t London. He suspected someone like him could even outshine the bright lights of the capital.

 


	2. Chapter 2

John went home that night happier than he’d been since he was a child. He didn’t understand why he was affected to this level by Sherlock but he didn’t care. It was the feeling that he brought with him that mattered. Who gave a fig why it was so? John now had an interesting, charming, clever man in his life even if he was just his tutor. He thought maybe, eventually, he could break the ice that Sherlock created with the cold air that flowed around him, and be his friend. He couldn’t learn much about him in their first meeting but he wasn’t about to give up.

He wanted to talk to Sherlock more. They had made plans to meet the next day after school at Speedy’s again but he wasn’t sure he could hold back until then. Maybe he could use chemistry as an excuse. Oh yes! He was going to ask Sherlock about a problem and then he would change the topic to something casual.

He took out his phone to text him only to see Jeanette had texted him five times when he was contemplating his new tutor, and no, he was not daydreaming. Jeanette was talking about their anniversary in all but one of the texts.

“Dammit” John muttered as he responded to the messages, then went on to ask Sherlock if they could meet on Friday instead of the next day. It was disappointing, having to postpone their meeting but there was no way around it. His only consolation was that he would get to have sex.

 

On Sunday, as soon as John entered the small café, Sherlock’s eyes roamed all over him. John ignored the weird feeling the intense gaze produced in him and took his seat next to Sherlock in the booth.

“You’re late.” he said in a clipped tone.

John looked at his watch, then said “It’s 7.02.” with a bemused expression.

“Yes, exactly. You are two minutes late. Next time I will have left one and a half minutes before this.”

 

He was inexplicably irritated with John for the first fifteen minutes of the study session. Well maybe it wasn’t so inexplicable. John supposed he had every reason to get mad at him. It’s not like he was waiting for his pleasure to serve him and John had broken their appointment without a valid reason. However as the minutes elapsed, Sherlock’s behaviour mellowed and they continued the study session making casual conversation in between problems.

“Do you know Philip Anderson?”

“Oh god. Are you friends with him?”

“No! God no! It’s just he overheard me talking about you yesterday. I was out and he came over to my table to *advise* me to stay away from you. Apparently you were mean to his big sister.” He giggled.

“I was also mean to him,” Sherlock’s eyes were shining with mischief. “and what did you say to him?”

“I told him I couldn’t, because I was helping you plan his murder.”

They descended into giggles together and actually started to plan Anderson’s murder. Sherlock thought getting rid of Anderson would be a service to society.

John found that he enjoyed Sherlock’s twisted sense of humour tremendously. He had not had any previous opportunity to realize how funny making light of taboo subjects could be before. He reckoned if he made jokes like the ones he made with Sherlock with his friends or his family, he’d be ostracized in a heartbeat.

 

He was truly enjoying himself, even when they weren’t joking around and he was trying to calculate what the next reaction could be. He wasn’t sure how much pleasure Sherlock got out of watching him like that but the strange man just stared intently whenever they weren’t talking. Every time he had to break the gaze, he felt a little jealous of the state he was in two seconds ago. Being the center of Sherlock’s attention was addictive but he had to ask for help with this problem.

Sherlock started to explain with wild gestures, wagging his hands everywhere. He kept calling John an idiot and asking him how he could not see the solution. However John wasn’t phased as he had learnt by now that that was how Sherlock interacted with people. He kept calling everyone an idiot, when they were speaking of things other than chemistry.

 

When Sherlock was done talking, one of his hands landed on John’s knee. John went rigid for a second but then they were sitting in a booth and he supposed this was just a natural result of Sherlock’s movements. However he found himself excited regardless of how he tried to explain the action away. Eventually when he realized the hand wasn’t going anywhere, he made himself relax. It was just a hand. On his knee. It was fine.

Sherlock told him to solve a couple of more problems and went on to stare at John like he was trying to decipher even more of his story than he’d already had. His hand was still on John’s knee. After a few minutes of keeping it motionless, he squeezed John’s leg. When John didn’t react, he started caressing it.

They were both acting like nothing was going on, while, to John’s mind, everything that was happening in the world right now, was happening under their table. Nevertheless, he continued to work on the problem as much as he could. However the slow circular motion was unsettling to say the least. No, not unsettling,  he was certainly anxious but the right word would be intoxicating.

As Sherlock’s hand started to move higher on John’s thigh, John glanced around subtly to see if anyone was looking at them. Strangely, nobody was paying any attention to two boys who seemed to be studying together. Sherlock was now caressing his inner thigh under the table and John decided to give up all pretense at studying. It’s not like Sherlock didn’t know he was aware of what was happening.

His hand was moving up slowly, as he leaned down against John and started licking his earlobe. When John let out a small moan, he shushed him. His hand was now very close to where John wanted it the most. He didn’t want Sherlock to stop, so he very determinedly shut up and prayed for this moment to never end.

Sherlock put his hand on the bulge in John’s pants and suddenly it got very hard to stay quiet.

He stopped licking John’s earlobe and whispered, “If you stay quiet like a good little boy, I will take you home next time.”

John shivered. He couldn’t quite comprehend what Sherlock’d said but he’d heard the “next time” bit and that was enough of an encouragement for John to keep his mouth shut. He continued to stroke his cock over his denim. John wanted more, he needed more and he knew he could get it next time, if he could only be quiet now.

Sherlock moved his hand faster and faster. John put down his head on the table so the other customers couldn't see what they were up to from the deep blush he assumed he had on his face. He was panting quietly now. There were no thoughts left in his head besides _Stay quiet! Stay quiet!_ repeating itself over and over again followed by _Oh god! Oh god! Oh god!_ His brain, unfortunately, was not as eloquent as it generally was. Later at home, when everything was clearer, he’d think _That felt better than when Jeanette does it with no fabric between her hand and my cock. Sherlock is a god._ Of course the only reason his thoughts would be clearer then was because the hand touching his cock would be his and not Sherlock’s.

Sherlock unzipped his pants and John could cry at that moment. Then he leaned over and whispered in his ear as he moved his hand in John’s pants now. He sounded strangely out of breath as well.

“Do you know what I will do to you then? I have a small desk in my room. I will bend you over it and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name and beg me to let you come.”

John moaned “Oh yes! Yes please”.

“Shhh! Be quiet. The girl at the cash register has already been glancing at us suspiciously. You don’t wanna give us away and stop before you come, do you?”

John shook his head eagerly even though Sherlock couldn’t see it move.  

“You can scream and moan as much as you want in my room. We’ll be alone. But now you have to be a good boy.”

John nodded his head and concentrated on the feeling on his cock. Sherlock’s fingers were magic. He was making circular movements on the head now but just as soon as he started he took his hand away. John whimpered at the loss.

The hand was back five seconds later however. Sherlock had taken it away to pour a small amount of olive oil on his fingers. He really was a genius. John tried very hard not to make any noise because this was heaven. Sherlock knew every trick in the book. He knew John’s cock better than John knew it. He was very close now. He started pushing into Sherlock’s slippery fist with small movements.

“Oh very good! If you continue to be a good boy like this, maybe I will even let you come after I fuck you senseless.”

With that John was coming. In his pants. Surely this was embarrassing but he couldn’t remember why. He had just had the most intense sexual experience of his life and it was just a handjob. He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like if Sherlock actually fucked him. In that moment, he didn’t even realize he was thinking about a man, or that a man had done this to him, in the middle of his small town café no less, where friends of his mother’s were sitting not three meters from him.

 

When he raised his head, Sherlock was already standing up, his detached behaviour intact. He looked like he hadn’t just wiped olive oil and John’s come from his hand. John panicked, thinking he was going to leave.

“Wait what-where?”

“I’m going to get a coffee, do you want one?”

John just gaped at Sherlock, who chuckled and moved to the counter. He zipped his pants and watched Sherlock as he leaned against the counter, sex embodied. John had not thought about how sexual he looked, but now he realized he couldn’t have because he didn’t think Sherlock would be interested and he didn’t want to be rejected even if it was by a Sherlock who was a creation of his own mind.

He was sure there was a mention of a next time during the spectacular handjob but he didn’t want to get his hopes up too much. He’d let Sherlock dictate what they did with their time. He didn’t want to come off as clingy and scare him away.

 

Sherlock returned to the table with two cups of coffee and smiled at him. He nodded at the book in front of John.

“You’re taking forever with those problems.”

John laughed. Was this what happiness felt like? He never imagined something that could happen in this bloody town would make him feel like this. He had only known the guy three days but he was ready to break up with Jeanette then and there and follow him to the ends of the earth.

When he saw that Sherlock was looking at him expectantly, he went back to the problems. They continued with their easy conversation as they studied and John found out a little more about Sherlock. It wasn’t all that much but he learnt that Sherlock was brought back here forcibly by his family, mainly his older brother, whom he seemed to despise. He didn’t know why Sherlock would do what they told him to do because he certainly didn’t look like someone who’d follow orders.

John watched him speak, rapt with attention, as he ranted about idiotic acquaintances from university, professors that didn’t have anything to teach him and life in London in general. He watched his beautiful lips, slightly slanted blue-green eyes, alabaster skin, his long thin fingers moving about as he got more and more excited about what he was saying.

John knew he had to learn more about this mysterious sex god who could make a handjob someone’s best erotic experience. He wondered if he did this with everybody. He certainly must have practiced a lot to be that good. The thought made John’s stomach clench with a feeling that was suspiciously like jealousy. He had never felt jealous of anybody before. Even when he’d seen his ex-girlfriend Sarah snogging a bloke behind the school. He clamped down the feeling quickly. Sherlock wasn’t his to be jealous over. He should be glad he could have his company and this much of his attention.

Although however much he tried to be logical, he knew he was already too far gone. He knew, he was utterly in love with this odd man. He was clever, funny and beautiful all at the same time. He knew that love at first sight didn’t really exist but he wasn’t so sure about the feeling that could develop at second sight anymore.

 

John knew what he had to do next day at school. He might not be the loyalest person out there but he wasn’t going to lead on a clueless girl. He decided to omit the biggest reason behind his actions. He had no intention of coming out to his girlfriend right after he broke up with her. He figured it’d be kinder to just point out that their time was over. It’s not like it wasn’t a good enough reason and it was certainly true but John had needed a push in the right direction, which he finally got from Sherlock. In any case, it’s not like Sherlock was exactly relevant to his decision either. They hadn’t said a single word about the incident afterwards. He knew Sherlock didn’t want a relationship with him and it would just be sex, if there was even a next time, but he also knew he would be warming his bed as long as Sherlock let him.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have completely rewritten the first two chapters since I was not satisfied with the quality of the writing before, however it is not imperative that you read them again. The story is almost the same but if you have the time, please do read as the POV is now only John's. 
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos! Comments of any kind are always welcome!

It felt weird to be sitting on the bed in Sherlock’s childhood room. It was decorated in the style of a very colourful pirate ship. The headboard was a ship’s wheel, and the curtains were black sails. There was also, what John assumed to be, a mast right outside the window, running down to the backyard, with a pirate flag on it.  

He couldn’t reconcile the image the room produced in his mind with the reserved man, who could be strangely aggressive when it came to sex. He couldn’t imagine a time where Sherlock played with toy swords and made pillow forts with other small children beside him. John had mentioned Sherlock to Greg and Mike passingly the day before, to see if they knew anything about him. It turned out Greg’s dad was friends with Sherlock’s dad, and Greg had been to the Holmes residence a few times. Apparently, Sherlock had always been an oddball. He’d had no interest in any of the children, and would never let them play with his cool pirate toys.

However, now in his 20’s, Sherlock had no problem playing with other children. In fact, John was sure he was plenty social from all the texts he kept receiving. There had been exactly twelve pings in the three minutes he’d been downstairs, preparing tea to help them through the study session, even though John was doubtful there would be any studying.

Sherlock had opened the door with nothing but a silk dressing gown on, and pushed John onto the bed as soon as they entered his room. Granted, it was a bit anticlimactic when he’d stepped downstairs into the kitchen right after that, but John was hoping there’d be more pushing and pulling in the vicinity of the bed later on.

 

Sherlock strode into the room with a cup of tea in each hand. Since they were alone in the house, he left the door open, and flopped down next to John, pushing one of the mugs into his hand.

“Your phone went off a couple of times.”

Sherlock shrugged as he took a sip from his tea. “Have you managed to solve the problems I gave you last time?”

“Yeah, they were easy.”

He peered at him suspiciously, then put his mug on the desk and crawled on his knees across the huge bed to sit against the headboard. John watched his backside move elegantly as he made his way. When he was settled back down, his dressing gown had ridden up all the way to the upper part of his thigh, teasing John with the possibility of more to come. He gulped.

“Well go on, show me.”

Startled, he almost broke his neck to look up at Sherlock’s face instead of his crotch. His mouth had pulled up at one corner, an altogether amused expression on his face. John blushed a deep shade of red, and rushed to open his books.

 

After Sherlock checked his answers and helped him with a topic he hadn’t paid attention to at school, he gave John a few more problems to work on, and stretched on the bed to lie down completely. John was sitting right next to him, his hip pressed to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Come on, John! Even Anderson wouldn’t take that long with that question. If I’d known you were a moron, I wouldn’t have bothered with this at all.”

He hurried to solve the problem, however it was getting more difficult by the second. Sherlock had now opened the sash of his gown, and was leisurely touching his half-hard cock, letting out small moans with every stroke.

He wrapped his unoccupied hand around John’s ankle, and started writhing as he got harder. John was now watching Sherlock, the book forgotten on his lap, covering the tent his erection made of his trousers. He was breathing hard.

“If you want to touch me, you’re gonna have to fin- uh - finish all those problems fir - oh - first.”

He jumped off the bed before Sherlock finished his sentence, and began to solve the problems at the desk, his back turned to the cruel man, who was pleasuring himself, and torturing John at the same time. He scribbled something illegible under every question before throwing the book to a far corner of the room. He jumped back into bed with Sherlock, who was watching him with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

As soon as he was on the bed, Sherlock was on top of him. John had the beginnings of a whimsical thought, something about the vampiric nature of Sherlock’s speed, before all manner of ideas were deleted from his brain. One of Sherlock’s hands was playing with his nipple, the other unzipping his trousers. When he went to help him with the zip, he pushed his hands away and pulled off his trousers, along with his pants, in one swift motion. Then he took John’s hands and put them on his arse.

“You can touch me too.”

John started caressing the perfectly shaped, firm bottom of the man on top of him, as he continued playing with his nipples and rubbing his cock on John’s equally hard one.

After, what seemed to John to be, an indeterminate amount of teasing, Sherlock moved one of his hands between them to wrap it around both their cocks. John groaned at the feeling the welcome tightness brought. He gathered his courage to take a bit of the control back and started thrusting into his fist. The movement pulled the sexiest sigh from Sherlock’s beautiful mouth. John felt something warm squeezing his heart at the sound. He’d done that. He’d gotten this gorgeous man to make that sound. He was turned on because of John.

Sherlock unwrapped his hand from around their cocks, and put a finger over his hole, touching it lightly. John squirmed at the sensation.

“I can bend you over the table like I promised if you want.”

He shook his head, and pushed against Sherlock’s finger. He couldn’t say a single word even if he wanted to. The ability to form coherent sentences was long gone.

Sherlock chuckled at his eagerness, and opened the drawer of the nightstand with his other hand to find the lube and condom. He put the condom on the bed next to him, coated his fingers generously with lube and started rubbing around John’s hole again.

As he pushed one, two, and eventually three fingers in, John writhed beneath him, making unintelligible sounds.

Finally, Sherlock turned him over. “On your knees.”

He did as he was told, panting harshly. He waited with his arse in the air, while Sherlock put on the condom, and used as much lube as possible. He rubbed his slippery cock between John’s crack, still teasing. John whimpered as he pushed back; he needed more. He couldn’t hold out much longer. He tried to wrap his fingers around his penis, but Sherlock was having none of it.

“No!” he shouted, with the air of a commanding officer.

John quickly put his hand back on the headboard, where his other hand was, and Sherlock finally pushed in. It was a strange feeling, being penetrated for the first time. It was still very hot, the thought of Sherlock being inside of him, but John knew it wouldn’t make him come.

Just as that thought was finished, Sherlock started moving with a deep moan that made John question the conclusion he had come to a second ago. Sherlock’s voice could be enough to make him come, let alone having parts of the man inside of him.

After a small amount of time, which John didn’t even register, Sherlock had found his sensitive spot. He let out a sound that came off almost like a sob, and moved with him.

Sherlock fucked him with the stamina of a beast. He slid in and out with delicious sounds that sent shivers down John’s spine. He was holding him by the hips, but eventually he wrapped his hands around John, and started stroking him with the same rhythm he was pushing into him.

John came first, all over Sherlock’s black pillow that had a pirate captain on it with a parrot on his shoulder. His knees were about to give out, but Sherlock gripped him strongly by the hips again and thrusted with abandon a couple of more times before he reached his climax as well.

He let John go, and collapsed on the bed next to him, out of breath. The contrast of a blank state of mind after such an intense experience was delightful. This was pure bliss.

 

While they were lying next to each other, enjoying the afterglow, they heard another ping. Sherlock reached out to the desk to grab his phone. He punched in an answer quickly, and stood up.

“I’m going to take a shower. We can continue your tutoring once my penis is clean like it is meant to be.”

He threw a towel to John before he left the room. John cleaned himself as much as he could, and put his clothes back on. Once he was dressed, he turned the pillow upside down, and put his head on the side with no spunk on it. He grinned like an idiot at the thought. He had come on Sherlock’s pillow.

Sherlock’s phone went off once again, and caught his attention. He could hear the water sounds coming from the bathroom. Sherlock was taking a shower. Maybe he could take a peek at this mystery person who kept messaging him without him knowing.

He sat up, and took the phone. The number was not saved on the phone book, because there was no name. He opened the text, feeling like a criminal. There was message after message from this number, which Sherlock seemed to ignore. Almost none were answered. John looked through some of them.

_I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that night. I want you. You know you want it too._

_I can make it even better this time. I bought toys._

_I’ll be in the rightmost stall after the class. Come._

The one Sherlock had answered a few minutes ago just read:

_Fuck me._

The answer terrified John to his very core.

_What for? I already have._

He put the phone back on the desk in panic. Sherlock had already fucked this person, so he wouldn’t fuck them again. Sherlock had already fucked John too. Would they just go back to their original arrangement now? Be tutor-student again?

 

He heard the tap being turned off, and water stop. He got up to grab his book from across the room, where he’d thrown it earlier in the passion of the moment, then sat back down on the bed, resigned to his fate. He’d do whatever Sherlock wanted as long as he could be around him, even if it meant he wouldn’t be able to touch the beautiful man anymore.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a few days of constant daydreaming (and night dreaming, wet wet night dreaming) of Sherlock performing almost every conceivable sexual act on John, with John, for John. Now that he was finally at Sherlock’s house again for their study session, he was more than a little anxious. He didn’t know what to expect after the text message he’d seen Sherlock send one of his conquests. He was now one of those conquests and he didn’t know how to feel about that. Pride dictated that he should have been disgusted with himself for being lumped in with people who’d been used and discarded, however what he was feeling was not even close to that. The fact that he’d gotten to experience Sherlock’s hands on him twice served solely to elate him, and he was only fretting that he wouldn’t be used more.

When he rang the doorbell, a middle aged man, who John assumed was Sherlock’s father, opened the door. He seemed like an ordinary, genial man, which made him wonder if Sherlock was more like his mother. Mr.Holmes told him that Sherlock was in his room, and that he could go right upstairs.

 

However upon entering, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John almost turned around to go look for him in the next room before he caught a glimpse of the man stepping inside from the small window on the wall to his left. Sherlock froze with one leg on the window ledge, the rest of him still on the mast, as their eyes made contact.

“What are you doing here?” he spat out with the air of a man who was not climbing up a pole to squeeze through a small window just to get into his own room.

“Ehm- did I get the day wrong? Cause I was sure we were supposed to meet at seven.”

“Oh. Right.” He finally got off the ledge and into the room. “Right.”

John nodded and was about to go sit on the bed when the scarf around Sherlock’s neck caught his attention. It was black, but there was a distinctive skull and crossbones pattern covering it. When he noticed where John’s gaze was directed, he coughed and attempted to cover the scarf with his hands. John looked up into his eyes to see he was brimming with contempt, but he wasn’t sure whether it was meant for him. He peered behind Sherlock out the window, and at the mast, and finally puzzled things together.

“Were you playing pirate?”

“Of- of course not!” he sputtered indignantly.

John chuckled at the manchild in front of him. It was a goodnatured laugh, but the intention escaped the otherwise omniscient man’s comprehension, who now only looked hurt. John had a hunch that he was about to be kicked out, because Sherlock was not the sort of man who’d let others see him vulnerable. This was not even the kind of vulnerability John wanted to see in him. He had to fix it.

“Can I play too?”

“What?” Sherlock sounded stupefied.

“I can be the first mate- or the enemy if you like.”

He made some unintelligible noises, and then gave up to watch John, looking like he was trying to ascertain if the boy was serious or not. Meanwhile John was rummaging through the treasure chest in the corner of the room for a decent pirate toy. When he came across a beautiful fake-bejeweled sword, his eyes shone with glee.

“Ah. This will do just fine.”

He rose, and started swinging the sword around, making weird noises which to him sounded like what pirates would shout during a fight. Sherlock was just staring at him as if hypnotized.

John put the sword to his throat, and yelled, “Surrender the booty, wench!” and then giggled.

At that, Sherlock got a mischievous look in his eyes, and grinned.

“Careful bilge rat, or ye shall be measured fer yer chains before ye even go on account.”

John grinned back at him, delighted. He ran back to the treasure chest, and threw another sword at Sherlock who caught it with the grace of a panther. There was also a captain’s hat in the chest. John knew just what to do.

As soon as he put it on, Sherlock yelled  “Hey, that’s mine!” and started marching towards him.

John had only one option. He gave him a huge smile, then jumped onto the ledge, and slid down the mast with his sword in one hand. He heard Sherlock yelling “Mutineer!” from upstairs as he landed in the backyard.  He looked up to see the real captain following him out of the window.

Sherlock was quick, but John was no slug either. He was chased across the yard every which way for ten minutes before Sherlock finally caught up with him, and they both raised their swords. It was the duel that was to be told for years to come, at least by John. It ended with his sword flying out of his hand, and Sherlock on top of him with his fake sword against his neck, straddling his thighs, both of them laughing till they were out of breath.

When their laughter finally died down, their eyes were locked onto one another. John couldn’t pry his gaze from the beautiful blue eyes that were looking right down at him if his life depended on it. Just as he thought Sherlock was about to lean in, they heard a woman’s voice from inside the house.

“Sherlock! It’s dinner time!”

Sherlock slowly got up off John, and helped him onto his feet. They both brushed off the dirt and grass from their clothes.

“Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“Come on then.”

 

Sherlock led the way to the dining room, and he walked behind him. When they entered, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes stared at them as if aliens had just landed in their backyard. John looked over himself once more to make sure he hadn’t missed a spot of dirt, however Sherlock didn’t seem to be phased by the looks his parents were giving them. He haughtily moved to a chair and sat down, and John followed his example.

The dinner was fine. They questioned John a bit about school, extra-curricular activities, and how Sherlock was during their study sessions. John coughed and sputtered a bit, but managed to give appropriate but almost completely false answers, while, he was sure, he was blushing all over.

They didn’t pay a lot of attention to Sherlock, but when they were almost done Mrs.Holmes noticed his scarf.

“Were you playing pirate, boys?”

Sherlock was clearly annoyed for being confronted about his childish pursuits, but growled a “Maybe.”

Mrs.Holmes smiled indulgently at her son, and turned to give John a strange look that made him feel like he was the second coming.

“John, have you tried this? You really haven’t eaten at all.”

She took his plate, and piled up everything that was left on the table on it. John peaked at Sherlock who was smirking at him, and knew that no help would come from that front.

“Mrs. Holmes, everything was delicious but I’m really fu-”

“Nonsense, John! Go on, eat up! You are skin and bones.”

Sherlock was now sniggering quietly next to him. John had no choice but to dig in.

 

By the time dinner was over, John was stuffed. He was sure he would make a great New Year’s Eve feast, if cooked slowly with a bit of gravy. He threw himself on Sherlock’s bed.

“Gah.”

Sherlock sat on the desk, and watched John with an amused expression, laughing quietly.

“Are you sure you don’t want more, John? There is some canned tuna in the fridge I’m sure my mother won’t mind digging up for you.”

John glared at Sherlock which only made him laugh more.

“You barely ate two bites. Why did I have to eat so much?”

“I think she likes you more than me,”

Sherlock rose to his feet again to put away the toys they played with. John watched him move quietly. He had never seen something more beautiful. His inky locks artfully tousled, even though John knew Sherlock hadn’t even run his hand through it after their duel earlier; his elegant neck exposed when he finally took the pirate scarf off that had covered it all evening; his firm arse accentuated under his trousers when he bent over to place the toys back in the treasure chest...John’s heart ached with yearning to touch the man not three meters away from him, but he didn’t dare. Sherlock, unaware of what was going on behind him, continued to speak as he tidied.

“She’s never even tried to make me eat that much.”

“I think she wants to make me fat, so I’ll look like a troll next to you. It’s all calculated.”

Sherlock turned and smiled at him.

“I already do anyway.” muttered John under his breath, not looking at the man.

Suddenly the mattress tipped with the weight of Sherlock next to him. He put his fingers through John’s hair, and patted him lightly. However, when John leaned into the touch, and closed his eyes, he immediately pulled his hand away as if burnt, and stormed out of the room.

 

John sat up slightly, dumbfounded at the sudden change of mood. After a few minutes of waiting, he heard the sounds of a violin coming from the next room. He was drawn to his feet by the melody. He followed it to find Sherlock playing the instrument behind a slightly ajar door. He stood there enchanted, watching as Sherlock swayed to the music.

“You may come in. There is no need to stand there like an idiot.”

John was apprehensive, but he went in anyway. It was a study/library. Sherlock continued to play as he looked through the hundreds of books on the shelves. When he came across The Chronicles of Narnia, he smiled, and took it, then settled in a plush armchair by the fire to read it.

 

Next, he found himself waking up in the middle of the night with a sore neck and a blanket covering him. He had been lulled to sleep by Sherlock’s violin, in the comfortable armchair, warmed by the fire. The room was completely dark. He rose to look around the house, but everybody was in their rooms, probably asleep. He took out his phone to see if his parents had called him, but only found a text from Sherlock.

_I let your parents know you’d be spending the night here. There is a pair of pyjamas on the sofa. Go back to sleep._

John found himself smiling even with sleep claiming him back. He put on what he assumed to be Sherlock’s clothes, and lied down on the sofa in the study. The last thing he could remember thinking was that Sherlock hadn’t even implied anything sexual today, but it was still one of the best days of his life. It was supposed to be a study session, but the topic hadn’t even come up, and now he was sleeping in Sherlock’s pyjamas, in his house. He closed his eyes, and sighed happily, quickly falling asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

John woke up to the smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen. Just as he sat up, he realized he wasn’t home. He had spent the night in the Holmes’ library. He yawned and stretched with a big smile on his face, then stood up to put his own clothes on. Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms were a bit on the long side and he had no intention of accidentally stepping on them and cracking his skull open.

 

When he was dressed, he padded to the kitchen and saw that Mr.Holmes was making pancakes. He winked at John and whispered, “Don’t worry, there won’t be as much food this time.”

John chuckled at him, “Thanks, Mr.Holmes.”

They heard footsteps coming in their direction. Mr.Holmes shushed him with a conspiratorial smile and they both fell silent like two kids who were hiding something incriminating from their mother.

Mrs.Holmes breezed into the room a second later with a bouquet of daisies she’d picked from their garden. She gave the quiet duo a suspicious look.

“Good morning, Mrs.Holmes!” John piped up and Mr.Holmes let out a big guffaw.

Mrs.Holmes shook her head, amused and said, “Good morning dear. How did you sleep?” She put the flowers in an empty vase and set them on the table as she spoke.

“Very well, thank you.”

He looked around surreptitiously to see if Sherlock was coming. Mrs.Holmes, however, noticed his fidgeting. “Oh he doesn’t wake up this early dear. You sit and eat with us. He barely eats anyway.”

John deflated a bit, but in the end couldn’t resist the smell of the fluffy pancakes and sat down.  After about five minutes of eating and pleasant conversation, a dishevelled Sherlock tottered into the kitchen. He flopped down on the chair next to John and stole his pancake.

“Hey!” cried John indignantly.

Sherlock gave him a crooked grin and kept on chewing. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs.Holmes once again looked flabbergasted at the presence of their son at the table.

“You’re up early.” Mrs.Holmes said.

He muttered something under his breath. John chuckled at how adorable Sherlock was when he’d just woken up. They shared the rest of his pancakes. When the food was done, Sherlock rose swiftly, tipping over his chair.

Mrs.Holmes ignored him and said, “John, dear, why don’t you stay a little longer- unless you have plans?”

John glanced at Sherlock who was on his way back to his room.

“Sherlock?” she called out to him.

He mumbled an affirmative and sauntered upstairs.

John nodded to Mrs.Holmes and said, “Thank you.”.

She gave him a warm smile as he turned to follow Sherlock out of the room.

 

He found him sprawled on his bed, reading an advanced chemistry book as if it was a novel. He crossed the room and sat at the desk quietly, so he wouldn’t bother Sherlock. He was busying himself on his phone when, after a moment, he realized there was a book held out to him. He looked down to see it was the Chronicles of Narnia. Sherlock jiggled the book impatiently, and when John took it, he scooted towards the wall without taking his eyes of his book. John took his place next to him. The next second, they were both reading peacefully.

They continued to read for quite a while. Their free hands were next to each other now, their pinkies touching slightly. John was feeling so content. He lost his place on the page a few times when he lost himself in dreams about holding hands with Sherlock or when he just concentrated on the feeling of the man’s finger next to his. Sherlock’s phone had gone off a couple of times again but he’d ignored it as usual.

 

When a different text alert went off, John was confused at first but then he realized it was his phone. He reached out to grab it but saw that Sherlock’s phone was right next to his. He was very curious about the texts and what could it hurt? Sherlock was lost in the world of elements and compounds. He didn’t even care about these texts.

He took the other phone inconspicuously and tapped the screen as if he was checking his phone. When he opened the newly received texts, he regretted it immediately. There were a few texts of the same nature as the ones he had seen before. There was also a picture of a gorgeous woman with a wicked gleam in her eyes, completely naked.

When he noticed Sherlock moving on his right side, he stilled. However the picture was still open on the phone and it was too late. Sherlock snatched the phone away from his hands and threw it to the other side of the room. The phone landed with a crash. John didn’t know what he had been thinking, trying to do something secret right next to the most observant man on the planet. He knew Sherlock thought he was an idiot and now he was inclined to agree. Sherlock grabbed his hips harshly and pulled his arse to his crotch.

“ Why didn’t you say you were horny enough to look at pictures of naked women?” he growled. He was undoing John’s trousers as he spoke. “You could just say, ‘Sherlock, fuck me’ and I’d oblige you.”. He pulled his trousers and pants down in one motion and put a finger between John’s arsecheeks. He started rubbing his hole and pushed the tip of a dry finger in.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?”

John couldn’t say anything, he was trembling, oddly aroused and scared for his life at the same time. Sherlock reached around him to open the drawer and grab the lube and a condom. He opened him up with a quick motion of his long fingers, repeated it a few times and pushed in his cock. He moved in and out of him like a madman, letting out his anger through both the roughness of his movements and his words.  

“How does my cock feel up your arse? Hm? Better than looking at pictures?”

When no answer came, he yelled, “Tell me!” and wrapped his hand around John’s erection and started pumping. John could only let out a broken moan.

Sherlock kept moving in a dizzying rhythm, while holding onto his hips possessively. He knew there’d be bruises there the next day. The thought of Sherlock marking him like he owned him brought John closer to his climax. With a few more thrusts, he was coming. Sherlock let go of his cock and pushed in a couple of more times and he was coming as well.

He lied panting, half on top of Sherlock. After a few seconds, Sherlock pushed him off himself like he was a disgusting bug then trotted out of the room, anger emanating from every part of his body. John heard the water running in the bathroom. He sat up on the mattress and put his face in his hands. He had gone and done it this time. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to get rid of John after they fucked. He wasn’t going to have sex with him again but he was okay with the boy being around. But now…

 

He slowly rose and dressed, then left before Sherlock was done with his shower. He realized he would have taken playing pirate or lying next to each other and reading over sex but now he would have neither.

 


	6. Chapter 6

For some reason, the classes that had been almost fun last week were once again mind-numbingly tedious. For the same reason, John had been pouting since the week had started. He didn’t pay attention to the lectures, and he wasn't talking to any of his friends during school. At least once again, the day was almost done. He was packed and ready to leave as soon as the period was over, hoping to escape everyone’s concerned enquiries. He had no idea why they could tell something was wrong now. They never could before. Thankfully, they couldn’t discern the reason behind his gloom. Whatever it was.

 

He near ran down the corridor and was almost out the door, when he heard Greg’s voice behind him, “Oi! John! Wait up!”

He came to a halt with a heavy sigh and turned around to find Greg and Mike jogging towards him.

“What’s the rush mate,” Mike said. “we haven’t seen you in ages.”

They ambled out of the school and through the yard.

“No rush, I was going home.”

“Are you trying to escape the onslaught of girls that’s sure to follow?” teased Greg.

John chuckled, “Yeah, I’m sure they’re queuing up.”

Greg turned to Mike, “Oh he really has no idea.” They laughed together.

That was intriguing. “What?”

“I had like three girls asking me for your phone number.”

“Yeah, they keep coming over to ask about you. Do you know how disappointing that is?” Mike chimed in.

John was stunned, “Why?”

“They heard you broke up with Jeanette.”

“I heard someone say you broke up with her because she wasn’t good in bed. I think they’re planning to rectify the wrong that was done to you.” laughed Greg.

John couldn’t help but laugh himself. “Oh my god.”

 

Just as they were stepping out of the gates, a silly blonde girl caught up with them.

“Hi John.” she almost sang, playing with a lock of her hair.

John gave an amused glance at Greg and Mike and then returned her greeting. “Hello.”

He couldn’t remember the girl’s name if his life depended on it. However he suspected he’d met her at some point, so he’d have to pretend for a few seconds he knew who she was.

Greg smirked at him in a knowing way and pulled Mike away. “We’ll see you tomorrow, mate” He grinned, “Have fun!”

John shook his head ever so slightly at his childish friends. He knew they were only trying to help. They knew, normally, he would be all over the girl in a matter of seconds. They thought it’d cheer him up. Only they didn’t know John was sick of putting up with mundane girls just for the sake of some frankly below average sex. It wasn’t why he had ended things with Jeanette but it just wasn’t worth it anymore. He wasn’t sure he’d bother with them even if the sex was awesome. He didn’t know what that said about him.

 

In the meantime, the nameless girl was blathering on about something or other, as they strolled through town. When there was a moment of silence, John realized she’d just asked something. He nodded in response, “Yeah, right.” with no idea what he was agreeing to. The otherwise dull eyes of the girl glimmered with excitement.  _Oh God!_  he thought,  _That could only mean trouble._

She linked her arm with John’s and started pulling him in the direction of Speedy’s.  _Agreeing to a date without paying attention. Great job, John! Top notch work._  He chastised himself all the way to the small café but he went along anyway. He wasn’t about to turn down a girl one second after he said yes. He wasn’t that callous.

 

There was an empty booth by the window. The nameless girl took a seat there once they purchased their coffees. John hesitated but he sat down anyway. He couldn’t just say  _Can we switch seats? You’re lovely and all but I just don’t want to be seen with you._

As the minutes went by, he watched the girl talk on and on about meaningless things. She was pretty, but in a classic sort of way. John didn’t know when classic had become a negative classifier to beauty. Well he did know, he just didn’t want to think about the reason behind his change of heart. Much like he didn’t want to confront the cause behind his mopey state for the past week. He nodded along to the one-sided conversation as the girl spoke about all the different colours of lipstick. Last time he was here he had been so fascinated (and much more than fascinated), he couldn’t have named one single thing that was happening around him. Now he spotted an odd couple having an argument in a whispering tone, which they probably thought people couldn’t hear. Somebody should have told them that loud whispering defeated the purpose of the way they spoke. There was also a strangely cheerful teenager behind the counter, swaying to whatever song was playing on his iPod. He had a dreamy look on his face.

 

Suddenly all John’s thoughts were dissipated with a hand on his thigh. He jerked his leg away and stood up, blood rushing to his head because of the sudden movement.

“I-I’ll be- right back,” he stuttered. “More coffee!”

He rushed to the counter to get another cup, even though his cup was still half-full. What was wrong with him? What was the problem with the girl putting her hand on his leg? He was just startled, that was all. He was single after all. It wasn’t like he was cheating on anyone. Why shouldn’t he have some fun? There was a beautiful girl who clearly wanted to be with him. So what if he didn’t remember her name? He could just text Greg and ask him. Yes, everything would be fine.

He calmed his nerves and returned to the booth with a new flavour of ice coffee he could share with the pretty girl. He sat down closer this time, giving her a genuine smile. Just as he offered his drink to her, he saw a tall, thin beauty passing by Speedy’s. He lowered his gaze as soon as he glimpsed his wild, curly hair. He would just walk on by, he had already passed the door. There was no need to get nervous. He concentrated on the girl’s chatter and was looking directly into her eyes now. Of course nothing would ever go well for him. After ten seconds of blissful ignorance, he heard a low velvet-like voice ordering a black coffee with two sugars. He couldn’t help but look up. The gorgeous man’s sexy voice would tear his gaze away from anything, even if he resisted it with all his might.

There he was. Leaning against the counter, in his long coat. John was certain he was not human. An incubus was a more likely possibility for what he was. He didn’t know if incubi could have sex with their eyes but Sherlock could certainly do it. He was staring right into John’s eyes with a fervour that a human being couldn’t possibly muster.

“Are you alright?”

The nameless girl put her hand on John’s arm, startling him once again. However, his eyes were still on Sherlock, who was now glaring daggers at the hand on his arm. John shrank back and her hand fell away. She followed his eyes and saw Sherlock looking right back.

“Who’s that?”

“Um- no one.”

“Why is he staring at us?” she caught the nervous look on John’s eyes and tried to comfort him. “Oh don’t worry, baby. I like you better.”

This, at last, managed to get John’s attention. He looked at the girl for a second, then let out a loud guffaw. She was getting annoyed with him but he couldn’t stop laughing. All the while, Sherlock was watching them like he was about to kill one of them. John just wasn’t sure who though.

His laughter finally died down but there were tears in his eyes. Of course at this point, the girl was livid. “Are you two having me on,” she yelled. Every eye in the small café was now on them. “You think you can both have your fun with me, you perverts? I’m not a whore on the market!” She threw her (thankfully) ice coffee in John’s face. He probably should have been embarrassed or at least unsettled but all he could think was  _How cliché._

  
As he wiped his face with a napkin to watch the girl leave in a huff, he noticed that Sherlock was not there anymore. He rose to go the bathroom and endeavour to clean himself. Any day involving Sherlock was certainly an improvement on the monotony he was used to. However, in which direction he didn’t know.


	7. Chapter 7

If you had asked John what his worst problem was a month ago, he'd have said something along the lines of "the crushing tedium of every day existence", albeit probably in a less verbose manner. Now the boredom, with which his life came, had an additional layer to it. He had been blissfully - one could always argue about the validity of this statement - unaware of the existence of one Sherlock Holmes and was resigned to his fate. He'd have gone along with it until time for graduation arrived. However now, he was in a whole different kind of hell. He knew he was there, a few blocks away from him at any given time. He wanted to see him, wanted to hear his voice, wanted to exist in the same space as he did but he was afraid. It had been two weeks since the incident, and another since he last glimpsed that angelic - though up to interpretation which angel it was - visage.

Sherlock didn't say anything either. John didn't fool himself into thinking he'd call to ask about how he fared, but he'd have thought there'd have been a call to schedule a study session. It's not like Sherlock was affected by what happened. He'd gotten mad at that moment, and rightfully, but he wouldn't dwell on it. Their professional relationship should have continued.

 His once-again-returned interest in staying home had surprised his mum too;

"You were doing so good, John. What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"But honey-"

"I don't need a tutor, mum."

"I think you should call Sherlock to set up a new study dat-"

"Mum!!"

"Fine, fine."

He tried to find solace in his ability to keep his mother at bay this time. She'd gotten him into this mess in the first place. He didn't know whether to yell at her or thank her for that. At least his reticence at school wasn't unexpected. All his friends were used to his silence, and the girls, who had seen him as a new prey, were finally beginning to get the idea as well. He went to his classes, sat there looking at nothing in particular, continued sitting without any contribution to the conversation during recess, and went home to rebuild his relationship with the ceiling from its cooling ashes.

 

Plain sitting had been working in his favour until, one day, conversation led to Molly's part-time job at the bookstore. She was talking animatedly about a handsome customer when John heard Sherlock's name. His head almost popped from the speed with which he turned to look at his friend.

"What?"

"Sherlock came to the store," Molly answered with a giggle. "I offered to help but he said he was just glancing over the books. We're not supposed to allow the customers to read the books before buying them but I just couldn't say no. He has such a bright smile."

John gritted his teeth but when he saw Greg looking at him with a smirk on his face, he attempted to school his expression into something more neutral .

Molly, on the other hand, continued her gushing, oblivious to the mood it put John in. "After at least an hour, he found a book he liked, but it was a first edition that Mrs. Hudson had bought for herself. I told him it wasn't for sale, but he kept insisting. I don't know why he wanted it. It was just a silly children's book- But he's very clever," _You don't know the half of it_ , John thought. "He said I could just tell her I was confused and sold it accidentally. He was right. She actually tried to console *me*, even though I sold it for less than quarter of its worth- but then, then he gave me a wink and left," John's knuckles had whitened by the force he was gripping the desk at this point. "He was so dreamy- John, could you give me his number? You have it, right?"

Greg had stopped glancing knowingly at John, and was now staring at Molly with an almost pleading look on his face. Molly noticed after a second and turned to Greg,

"What?"

John took this opportunity to try to escape the unbearable direction his thoughts were taking. Was Sherlock interested in Molly? Would he replace him with her? Would he help her with classes, play pirate with her, have sex with her?

 

Walking away didn't help. The questions kept repeating themselves in his head. He was pulled away from his daze when he bumped into someone, and realized that he'd left the school premises in a trance. He immediately bent over to pick up the papers he'd dropped in the collision. He wasn't even looking at the man he'd run into.

"Shit." he mumbled as he reached to gather the test he'd promptly failed, as soon as things had gone south with Sherlock. However a pale hand grabbed the sheet before he could.

"What is this?"

All thoughts about Molly disappeared from his mind. The voice, he'd so longed to hear, was finally ringing in his ears, but John was apprehensive. He wasn't ready to face a brush off. Not seeing Sherlock, at least, precluded that possibility. However, when Sherlock started to speak again, his apprehension was replaced with something akin to joy. Sherlock was yelling at him.

"Didn't I spend a whole day explaining this to you? Are you really this much of an idiot?"

"It really wasn't a whole day." muttered John, smiling a secret smile. Sherlock ignored him. He was pointing at an equation John didn't even remember writing down.

"And what is this drivel? Even in alchemy, you don't get more than you put in! Are you working on a magic formula?"

He leaned down to rifle through John's backpack, disregarding his protests and came up with a pen. His next move surprised John even further. He grabbed his wrist, and started to write on his palm, explaining his mistakes in a spirited fashion. John could do nothing but stare at the madman in front of him and let himself be written all over.

By the time Sherlock was done, both John's arms were full of chemical notations up to the elbows. There were also many small dents on his skin, from when Sherlock thought he wasn't paying attention. Being poked with a pen a dozen times wasn't enough of a punishment for the comically angry man, however. Especially since he knew John hadn't followed any of the things he'd said. He picked up John's backpack from the ground and started heading in the way of his house, talking a mile a minute. He didn't turn to check if John was following. There was no need anyhow. John was pattering behind him like a puppy, an ecstatic expression on his face.

 

They got to Sherlock's house and climbed up to his room, as if nothing had happened in the previous weeks. They reclined on the bed, as it was their custom, and studied for two hours. Sherlock explained everything he'd done wrong on the test. John didn't tell him he knew the answers. He relished having Sherlock's sensual voice directed at him once again, even if it was talking about chemistry. His hand on his thigh didn't disappoint either. His long fingers were placed there, not moving, but it was enough for John.

Once they were done, silence fell. They sat there, touching from shoulder to hip, and didn't say anything. Sherlock's head was thrown back, leaning against the bedpost. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't sleeping. John watched him for a bit, taking in his beauty. He could never be sure the next moment wouldn't be his last with the elusive man. He wanted to take advantage of every second.  

When it was time to go home, he dragged himself up from the bed. He didn't want to leave, but he'd promised his mother he'd go out with them to a posh restaurant to celebrate his parents' wedding anniversary.  Sherlock watched him stand up out of the corner of his one open eye.

 

He bent over to gather his things in his backpack. Just as he picked it up and straightened himself to put it on, two sinewy arms snaked around his waist. He dropped the bag back on the floor of the cluttered room, and leaned into the body behind his. He felt plush lips on the right side of his face, giving him small, breathy kisses. Sherlock's tongue came out, and his teeth with it, to graze his earlobe. John shivered at the sensation. The hands on his hips were now under his shirt, caressing his stomach lightly. He couldn't do anything but lose himself in the feelings Sherlock brought out.

He slowly turned John around in his arms and looked into his now hooded eyes with something that could be called tenderness in somebody else. Then it happened. There were lips were on his. He didn't know what to do. Sherlock hadn't kissed him until now and he understood. He knew the man didn't enjoy emotional intimacy and sex certainly didn't require kissing. After a few seconds of being caught off guard, John decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and started kissing him back.

He'd kissed many girls before Sherlock, but nothing could compare to this. He could convey every little thought and feeling he had about the man in this act, everything he couldn't say in words. He was sure Sherlock could tell, but he was too far gone to care. For his part, the beautiful man holding him didn't seem to care either. He kissed with a passion John couldn't have even imagined. They fell back on the bed, with Sherlock under him and snogged for what seemed like only a few minutes, but in reality was closer to an hour. John dropped his head on Sherlock's shoulder and tried to catch his breath. Sherlock's hands were settled on his arse, where they had been kneading the flesh a few minutes ago. He made no attempt to go any further than making out, and just held him.

 

After a while, John's phone rang, a reminder of his duties for the day. Right as he was getting up, Sherlock gave him a small chaste kiss on the temple. John looked at him in surprise and was even more surprised to find the normally distant man smiling at him. He smiled back shyly.

It was his sister calling to nag him about the dinner.

"Yes?- Yes Harry- Alright- Yes, I'll be there in ten minutes- I said alright! I'm coming!" He hung up, already fed up with his family. "God." He turned to find Sherlock watching him with that small smile still on his face.

"Going anywhere?" his smile grew.

John grinned back. "Yeah. It's my parents' anniversary. We go out to dinner every year."

"Sounds like a hoot." Sherlock said innocently. John grabbed the pillow that was closer to him and lightly threw it at his face. He laughed a beautiful, joyous laughter in response. John thought he'd die a happy man, if that was the last thing he ever heard.

"You can text me, if you get too bored." Sherlock amended. There was still a tiny trace of a laughter in his voice. John wished it'd always been there.

He grabbed his backpack. "On your head be it. Expect a text in fifteen minutes time." he said, smiling. His smile turned into a mad grin as he stepped out of the room.

When he got home, he'd have to look up and see, if madness was contagious. If so, he was glad he’d been in close proximity to Sherlock Holmes. He had no intention of being cured.


	8. Chapter 8

John ran into the restaurant he’d been expected in twenty minutes ago to celebrate his parents’ anniversary. It was the least he could do to seem enthusiastic. He had walked the way there in a leisurely pace, thinking about Sherlock’s body under him, his arms around him, his tongue touching his. He wanted to be with him, lying on his bed in his cluttered room, not sit next to his insufferable sister and be interrogated by his parents. However, there was nothing for it. So he affected eagerness. A kiss on the cheek for his mother, a nod for his father and an eyeroll for Harry who was sticking out her tongue at him.

“Sorry I’m late. I was at Sherlock’s, studying.” He sat down as he spoke, and took off his jacket.

His mother smiled at him, “That’s alright, dear. I’m glad you’ve decided to go back to him.”

His ears blushed a deep red. His mother hadn’t meant that, but if her sniggering was anything to go by, Harry knew what was on John’s mind.

“Now, we’ve already ordered, John. Decide what you want and- What the deuce are those?” His father, and now everybody else, was staring at his arms. Arms that the ever-welcome pain in his arse Sherlock Holmes had used as a notebook. He put his jacket back on quickly.

“It’s nothing. Just notes.”

His father gave him a look to convey the unsaid words _You are a bizarre child_. Harry, on the other hand, was not as easily swayed.

She smirked, and whispered, “You’re letting him write on you? What else are you letting him do?”

John busied himself with the menu, opting to ignore Harry’s jibes. However, she was as persistent as ever.

“ I hope you have a safeword. A ‘no’ probably wouldn’t be enough to stop him.”

“Shut up, Harry.”

 

Thankfully, the waiter chose to arrive at that second and relieved John of Harry’s half-correct assumptions. In any case, he had no intention of discussing his sex life with his sister. He opened his mouth to ask for more time to peruse the menu. However, his text alert went off just then. He quickly pointed to something without even considering, and opened the new text.

_Have you discussed your weird new obsession with chemistry with your parents yet? I understand your enthusiasm and the need to express yourself, John, but you may have gotten a bit carried away._

John grinned at the bastard’s nerve, and started typing a text of his own.

_Yes, thanks for not reminding me. Now my dad thinks I’m a weirdo and I’m the laughing stock of Harry._

_You are a weirdo. I’m glad I helped a parent get to know his child a little better. Also, Harry is the one who deleted the history on your browser._

He turned glare at Harry who was busy with her own phone.

_What? Why?_

_She used the computer to look up lesbian porn and didn’t know how to delete her trace another way._

John’s eyes widened. He stared at Harry until she noticed the curious eyes on her. “What?”

“Nothing.”

_I really don’t need to hear about that Sherlock._

_Why not? Knowing her secrets will help you counter her attacks. I make sure I always have something on Mycroft to threaten him with._

A grown man strategizing about how to annoy his older brother who was, incidentally, a government official. John gave an exasperated sigh.

_You are 21. And the man you’re talking about is almost 30._

_Your point being?_

John chuckled quietly at Sherlock’s childish behaviour. The man would never dream somebody would think him adorable, but he was. He was the most adorable thing John had ever seen.

_How did you know about the browser thing anyway?_

“John, Harry, please put away your phones for one dinner a year.” his mother interrupted, pulling John out of the text conversation.

Harry did as asked without a comment. John, however, didn’t see that happening. He placed his on the table. His mother raised a quizzical eyebrow at him.

“I have to keep mine on hand, mum. Sherlock was disappointed with the results of the last week’s test. He won’t let me have any time off.”

Harry smirked, clearly not believing a word he said. John gave her an evil side-eye.

“Oh that boy works you to the bone, but I must thank him for his efforts. Bring him by sometime and I’ll bake a pie for you boys.”

“I will.”

 

In the meantime, his phone had lit up once again, now in the silent mode. Just as he picked it up, his meal arrived. Apparently, he’d ordered chicken. He left the dish to its own devices and went back to his phone.

_You were complaining about not being able to find a web page you’d recently visited earlier. So somebody must have deleted your browser history. Your parents are not computer users, therefore they are out. Harry is the only other person with access to it._

_Yes but how did you know it was lesbian porn?_

_I saw her the other day, looking at porn magazines surreptitiously. She was pretending to browse the rest of the selection. However her reaction to the conversation next to her was the best evidence. Two boys were talking about why porn magazines had become obsolete. She seems to have gotten ideas from them._

A huge smile formed on John’s face, regardless of the topic of the conversation.

_I don’t think I’ve ever looked at one._

_You haven’t missed anything._

_You don’t think erotic photos can be helpful?_

_No, they certainly can be stimulating. A naked girl riding a horse on a field doesn’t quite do it for me, though._

John burst out a hearty laugh, drawing everyone’s attention to him.

“Ehm, sorry.”

“Eat, John.” His mother forced a forkful of chicken into his mouth.

“Yes, mum.” he muttered as he chewed. He could continue to ignore the conversation at the table, however the chicken seemed to be another matter.

_Thank you once again. Now I am a weirdo who is also being force fed in a posh restaurant._

_Why?_

_Because I was too busy laughing at my phone to eat._

_Ah. Parents tend to feed their children. That’s right._

John felt a pang in his heart at Sherlock’s response. He remembered the meals he had with him and his parents. They’d looked at Sherlock as if he was an alien at their table. Now he understood why.

_Why don’t you eat with your parents?_

The phone was silent for a few minutes, during which John finished his meal.

_I have more important things to do than sitting at the table, and staring at them._

_But I’ve seen you eat._

_I do get hungry, John. I’m not a robot._

_Want to get lunch tomorrow?_

_What for?_

_For fun._

_Fun in this town? Hardly._

He didn’t know what else he’d expected but he was disappointed anyway. They weren’t friends, and they were certainly not a couple. Why would Sherlock go out with him?

 

He was putting his phone in his pocket, when he saw the screen light again.

 _There’s a good café in Bingham. We can get some lunch there and walk around. For some reason I like the nature better there. Greener grass and whatnot, I suppose._  

John’s heart was suddenly beating out of his chest. A date. Was this a date? Lunch outside and then walking around? He suggested they walk around. Did Sherlock want to hang out with him too?

“Why are you all red?” Harry piped up, startling John.

The meal was paid for, and they were all putting on their coats.

“It’s- Nothing. I’m fine.”

Harry regarded him suspiciously for a second, then turned her back and walked towards the door.

His mother patted his shoulder, “Come on, honey.”

John followed, but his eyes were on his phone, which he was holding a bit too tightly. After a couple of minutes, he realized he hadn’t responded to the text, and hastened to type an answer.

_Yeah, Bingham sounds great._

His phone pinged again in a few seconds, as if Sherlock had been waiting by the phone for the reply. Okay, the man had consented to go out with him but there was no reason to get caught up in his fantasies. It was probably just coincidence that he saw the message right away.

_I’ll pick you up at 11._

_Okay. See you tomorrow :)_

_Yes._

 

As he continued to walk leisurely with his parents and sister to get their anniversary ice-cream, he prayed he wouldn’t throw up as soon as he started eating. He was too excited to eat, to talk, to sleep, to anything. He was sure there was no meaning behind what Sherlock was doing. He knew he was only amusing himself, passing the time but he couldn’t help but dream. What if Sherlock was just as excited? What if he considered tomorrow a date? What if? There was no way he was going to ask, but one could always hope. Hope was not logical. It just happened. He could see Sherlock despising him for it too. Calling him an idiot for being a victim of something so arbitrary. Yet he didn’t work on logic alone. He was not Sherlock Holmes. He was just plain John Watson, and he hoped.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

John opened his eyes slowly, and stretched lazily. He’d set his alarm for ten o’clock to make sure he had enough time to get ready for his lunch with Sherlock. He grinned. He was lucky he could fall asleep with all the excitement he felt. It wouldn’t do to show up looking like a zombie. No doubt Sherlock would have been able to tell the reason behind his sleepless night. He twisted in bed a little to see how much time he had before he absolutely had to get up.

“Oh bloody hell!”

He shot out of bed like a bullet. It was quarter past eleven. They were supposed to be on their way to Bingham by now. Sherlock hated waiting for more than ten seconds. He was certainly gone. He threw on whatever clean clothes came to his hand without checking if they went together or not, all the while muttering, “Shit, shit, shit” to himself.

He raced downstairs, and through the lounge, ignoring his mother’s calls. “John?- John, where are you going?”

He’d opened the door, and was about to step outside when his mother called out to him again, “John, Sherlock’s come to visit you.”

He did a double take, and noticed that Sherlock was in the lounge, sitting across from his mother, with an amused look on his face.

“Honey, close the door, will you? It’s freezing outside.”

John made to close the door, however Sherlock’s voice stopped him. “That’s alright, Mrs. Watson. We should get going if we want to make lunch. Thank you for the tea.”

“Oh no, dear. It was my pleasure. Come back again, I’ll bake a pie for you boys.”

“I will. Good morning.” Sherlock gave Mrs.Watson a genial smile.

John was watching the proceedings with curiosity. Polite Sherlock was certainly a curiosity. He grabbed John’s arm on his way out. “Come along, John.”

 

He let himself be dragged to the car parked in front of the house. His mother closed the door as they got in. Sherlock was still smirking.

“What?”

“Your socks are mismatched.” He giggled. Sherlock Holmes giggled. Who knew that was possible?

John peeked down at his ankles, and started giggling as well. “I was in a hurry.”

“I had a hard time refusing your mother’s attempts to feed me. She didn’t seem to care that we were going out to lunch.”

John grinned. “Bitter, isn’t it?”

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“A taste of your own medicine.”

Sherlock laughed. A delightful light laughter. John was about to pass out from happiness already, and they hadn’t even left the town yet.

“I didn’t know you had a car.”

“It’s my father’s. He let me borrow it.” He sounded like there was some resentment behind the statement.

“Is that strange?”

Sherlock groaned. “When did you get so clever?”

John grinned again. He was doing a lot of smiling, grinning, laughing when around Sherlock, it seemed.

His driver mumbled something.

“What?”

“He said it was okay if I was with you!” he shouted indignantly. He looked like a sulky five year old who wasn’t trusted with the candy jar.

John couldn’t help himself. He dissolved into laughter. Meanwhile Sherlock was ignoring the icy road to glower at him.

“The road! Watch the road!” John pleaded breathless with glee.

They drove the rest of the short way to their neighbouring town teasing each other about various things, and chuckling with joy. When they arrived, Sherlock parked the car in front of the small restaurant. The streets were almost empty, even though it was Saturday. The townsfolk preferred to stay in, which was understandable in such weather. They quickly made their way in to the warmth of the café, and found a table.

 

John had a delicious meal, and the loveliest time, chatting aimlessly to Sherlock. Sherlock also seemed to be having a good time, which raised John’s spirits even higher. Their legs were touching innocently under the table the whole time.

He realized he was being treated to lunch when he came back from the loo to find the bill paid. They stepped outside to take a walk around town. Soon they were strolling around in fields, lightly covered with snow. In his haste, John had not dressed weather-appropriate. He had no pockets to stuff his hands in. He was rubbing his, now almost frozen, hands together as they made their way through Bingham. He didn’t want to spoil the mood by bringing up the cold. Sherlock didn’t seem phased. He could brave a little chill as well.

Only he didn’t have to. He felt something leather nudging his hip. He glimpsed down to see Sherlock had taken off his gloves, and was now offering them to him in silence. John took them with a small smile and a blush on his cheeks, which could luckily be attributed to the cold as well. They continued walking around for a little longer. Conversation was sparse, but it didn’t matter. It felt good to be alone with someone right there beside you. It was a state of mind he could never achieve before, with anyone. He was at peace.

 

Four months passed in such a fashion. John spent almost everyday with Sherlock, happy and peaceful. He’d taken his A-levels, and applied to a few universities in big cities, especially London. He’d always wanted to live there, but now he had another, more important reason for wanting to be there. When he received the news that he’d gotten into St.Bart’s, he was ecstatic. He almost ran to Sherlock’s house to give him the news, forgetting his family in his excitement.

Sherlock opened the door in his pants causing John to forget the entire English language, let alone his news. The almost naked man smirked at him, and pulled him inside. John followed him up the stairs to his room, which was filled with beakers and what seemed to be another one of Sherlock’s weird experiments. He turned his back to John to go back to whatever he was doing.

John eventually pulled himself back together. “I got into St.Bart’s.”

Sherlock jumped back to face him with a huge smile on his face. Then suddenly, he found himself surrounded by the tall, lean man’s long arms. Sherlock had gotten used to touching him in non-sexual contexts, but this was still unexpected. He quite literally squeezed the breath out of him. He only let go when John started to cough.

The madman patted him on the shoulder again with that huge grin still on his face. “Good John, very good.” Then he went back to his experiment, and paid him no more attention. John pulled a book from one of the stacks on the floor, and lied down on the bed to read. The news had been shared with all who mattered. Now he could relax.

 

The next day found John awakened by Sherlock’s knocking. He almost had a stroke, seeing the idiotic genius perched on the ledge outside his window with a manic gleam in his eyes. He rushed to open the window and let him in. He and his coat jumped inside.

“What the HELL are you doing?”

Sherlock removed a book out of his long coat, and held it out to John.

“What is this?”

Sherlock just held it out, jiggling it, and didn’t say a word. John accepted what appeared to be an old children’s book from its cover.

“It’s a pirate book. I saw it in the bookstore yesterday. It’s difficult for me to listen to you try to speak like a pirate, and it is my duty to educate you. Even if you’ve already got accepted into a programme.”

John opened the book, and skimmed the first page. A first edition. This wasn’t bought on a whim yesterday. This was the book Sherlock tricked Molly into selling him all those months ago. He couldn’t stop the tears welling in his eyes. He couldn’t let Sherlock see him cry. He quickly turned around to put the book on his desk, and wipe his eyes.

“Well?” Sherlock sounded expectant.

When he was presentable again, John turned to face the man he knew to be the love of his life. “I love it. Thank you.”

Sherlock was looking at his feet with unexpected shyness showing on his face. “As long as you learn something.” he muttered under his breath.

John smiled at him. He didn’t want Sherlock to be uncomfortable. “Want some breakfast? Maybe my mum will bake that pie as well.”

Sherlock looked up. “Yes! Yes! Let’s.”

He darted past John, and down the stairs. John stole one more quick glance at the pirate book, and followed his heart.

 

Another month passed in hanging out together alone, with their families, with John’s friends, chatting, kissing, and having sex. Having sex wasn’t quite the right word. However John couldn’t quite let himself call it making love. But it was. It was making love. It was sensual, passionate, sometimes slow, sometimes hasty. John was drowning in his feelings. Their time was almost up, but he was hopeful now, that his feelings were reciprocated. Sherlock was letting him act like they were a couple. He even told John to check his messages when he was busy with something, and delete them at will. He said he’d know what was necessary and what was not. Everyone else certainly thought they were a couple.

He had one chance not to ruin this. He’d wanted to find the perfect moment to confess - God he sounded like a secondary school child - to make sure the beautiful man knew what he felt. He needed Sherlock to say _Yes I want to be with you too_ , and he was hopeful that he would. However he was running out of time now. He’d go over the next day, and say what he wanted to say. Hang the waiting. Everything involving Sherlock was perfect anyway.

He planned his speech in his head the whole night. Eventually he fell asleep with the first edition pirate story book cradled in his arms like a baby. Tomorrow would be perfect.


	10. Chapter 10

He was too excited by any standard. This was crazy. He was crazy. He could imagine Sherlock holding him in his arms, and telling him he loved him too. There was every chance his dream was going to come true. Then why did he feel like he was about to throw up? Even with all that happened, John was still slightly intimidated by the older boy. What if it didn’t go well? He shook the paranoid thoughts out of his head. Sherlock willingly spent every day with him. He continued having sex with him, even though John knew he didn’t have more than one night with anyone else. He kissed him, hugged him, took him out, gave him presents. What other sign could there be for love?  

He dressed up in his colourful plaid shirt and cerise cardigan that he knew Sherlock preferred, threw on a pair of jeans and his shoes. He gave his mother a kiss on the cheek on his way out. Walking the couple of blocks between his house and Sherlock’s had never been so suspenseful. He tried to keep his mind empty, and just concentrated on his task; reaching him.

 

When he got there, he hesitated on the doorstep for a few minutes. This was the biggest moment of his life. He took a deep breath, calming himself as much as possible, and rang the doorbell. When nobody answered, he rang again. Where was everyone?

He walked around the house to the backyard, and checked to see if Sherlock’s window was open. He smiled when he found the window open, and the pirate flag waving on the mast. He quickly climbed up the pole, and threw himself inside the room.

“Why aren’t you answering the-” John stopped short in front of the window, trying to comprehend the sight in front of him.

There were five suitcases, all quite large, open, and half-packed around the room, and Sherlock was busy packing the rest of his stuff away. He didn’t acknowledge John’s presence, and just continued folding shirts, and placing them in the right suitcase.

“What’s going on?” John’s voice broke a little on the last word. Yes, their time in the town was coming to an end, but this soon? Why hadn’t Sherlock said anything? He must have been leaving in a day or two, if he was already packing. Why was this never mentioned?

Sherlock didn’t turn around. “I’m sure you can see what’s going on, John. Unless you’ve turned blind, as well as an idiot.” The words didn’t get to John,. It was Sherlock’s voice. He sounded cold and distant, like he hadn’t in months. Just like when they’d first met.

He struggled to find his voice. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I thought you had to stay here until uni started.”

Sherlock sounded just as composed as ever, but he still kept his back to John. “Well, apparently I’ve been so very good all these months that I’m allowed an early return. I can’t wait to get back to London.”

John’s body dropped down onto the bed without his permission. He watched quietly as Sherlock put everything, except for his childhood belongings, away in the suitcases with efficient movements. John had to do something, had to say something to keep this man in his life, but he was shell-shocked. He’d thought they would have at least another month.

 

Eventually Sherlock finally turned around to find John still on the edge of his bed, staring vacantly at the luggage. He moved towards the nightstand next to the bed to empty the drawer. However John, who had finally seen Sherlock’s face after almost an hour of sitting there, gripped his wrist, and pulled Sherlock to himself. The normally-graceful man was unbalanced, and fell onto his lap. John attacked his lips with all the passion he had, and within a second, Sherlock was kissing him back with the same intensity. He pushed John onto his back, and straddled his thighs, then threw off the dressing gown he had on. He was naked now, except for his pants. He wasted no time in grinding his cock against John’s denim clad one. John moaned at the sensation. However it wasn’t enough for Sherlock. He growled, and started undressing John in the vampiric speed that he sometimes employed when they had to have each other right that moment, and everything was fiery and quick.

When John was completely naked, he also took off his pants, and jumped on him once again. However when their lips came together, time slowed down. Their lovemaking had once again turned sensual. They snogged forever, just rutting against each other. It was glorious. John was trying to touch everything that was in reach. When he made to place his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders instead of his arse, Sherlock held off his hands. He broke the kiss, and gazed into John’s eyes with a sadness that broke John’s heart. He moved one of John’s hands back onto his arse, right between his cheeks. John paused all his movements, and stared at Sherlock speechless. Sherlock let go of his hand, and went back to snogging him. John moved his hand where it was left experimentally. When the wanton man on top of him moaned into his mouth, and writhed, he touched his hole more deliberately. Sherlock moaned again. John, on the other hand, was about to die. He’d never been allowed this before. He didn’t want to hurt Sherlock. He kept his finger moving on the hole, but didn’t go any further, until Sherlock had enough, and reached blindly for the drawer of his nightstand for the lube and condom. He pushed them onto John’s freehand, and continued with his business.

He licked and sucked his way down to his jaw and neck, whilst John was trying to coat his trembling fingers in lube. He slowly pushed one finger in, but Sherlock’s hole clenched at the intrusion. He kissed the now-tense man’s sweaty temple, just like he’d learnt from him, and massaged the whole for a little longer before he pushed one finger all the way in. This was really REALLY tight. Was this normal? Sherlock had said before that when they first fucked, he was really tight. But that was because he’d never done it before. It’d gotten easier as they did it again and again. He pushed another finger in slowly, and Sherlock groaned. He put his freehand on Sherlock’s now not-quite hard cock, and pumped a few times in rhythm with his fingers. Eventually a third finger was added in, and Sherlock was ready as he was ever going to be. He was panting harshly on top of John. John held him by his arms, and switched their places, laying Sherlock down on the bed. He put the condom on his almost purple cock, and coated it with lube as well. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, and instead of the usual blue-green ocean, he found himself lost in a black pit of tar. He was still trembling as he pushed his cock inside Sherlock slowly.

This was heaven and hell at the same time. Sherlock was really tense the whole time. He paused when he was fully inside his arse, and waited for Sherlock to adjust to the feeling. When Sherlock started rocking back and forth, he began moving as well. He slowly pulled out, and pushed in, pulled out, and pushed in. He wasn’t going to last. This was different than anything he’d ever experienced. He moved in and out a couple of times more, and he was coming. He lied on top of Sherlock for a few seconds out of breath, then he pulled out of the beauty underneath him who was still hard, and took his cock in his mouth. He pushed his fingers back in his arse. When he found his prostate, he started moving his fingers in rhythm with his mouth. Sounds came out of Sherlock’s throat, sounds that John had never heard before. He did all the things he’d learnt from Sherlock to pleasure the man like he deserved. Sherlock came with a grunt in John’s mouth, and fell completely limp in the afterglow.

 

John placed himself behind Sherlock, and held him in his arms, touching his face with his lips, not quite kissing. Sherlock was completely silent in his arms. This was the right time, the time he’d been waiting for.

He gathered his courage, and whispered into Sherlock’s ear, “I’m in love with you.”

Sherlock tensed as soon as the words left his lips, but he had to go on. It was now or never.

“I’ve loved you since the beginning. These past months have been the best of my life. I can’t bear even the thought of being apart from you for one day,” He paused for one moment before he ploughed on. “I want to be with you. I think we should be together.” He waited. He waited for an answer for what seemed like an eternity.

Eventually the man in his arms stirred, and he heard a muffled sound like a sob coming from him.

“Sherlock?” His voice quivered.

John turned Sherlock in his arms to see what was happening. When his face was out of his pillow, and he could finally hear him, John went completely still. He was white as a sheet. Sherlock was laughing. He hadn’t heard a sob like he was worried about, it was something much much worse. Sherlock was laughing at him.

He let go of the cruel man who fell on top of John completely limp. He was laughing hysterically now, and openly mocking John when he could spare his breath for talking instead of laughing.

“Oh God- He loves me-”

John was frozen beneath him.

“He loves me. Oh this is too precious,” He finally stopped his cackling, and sat on top of John’s legs with his back ramrod straight. He looked into John’s tear-filled eyes with a hard-hearted look in his. “You want to be with me? What will we do John? Will you introduce me to your friends as your boyfriend? Will we hold hands, and go to the movies? Will you tell me how much you love me every night after we make sweet sweet love with a ballad playing in the background, and candles lit? Will you be mine forever so I can only be yours?” He smiled a cold smile at John before he twisted the dagger one last time. He held his eyes and said, “I don’t love you.” Then he got up off John, smashed the door of his room, leaving John with tears running down his cheeks.

  
John heard the water running in the bathroom, and started crying loudly, almost howling. He continued sobbing as he put on his clothes, and ran out of the room that had housed his favourite memories. Now forever tainted with his worst one. Everything was over. He ran as fast as he could, and didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm evil.


	11. Interlude I

It was too early in the morning to be waking up, let alone driving. When his phone rang at five with John’s name on the screen, he’d almost not picked up, and gone back to sleep. He didn’t know if answering had been the best idea either. John was sitting in the passenger seat with no expression on his face. He clearly had not slept one iota. On top of all that, he hadn’t spoken at all. He’d asked him to take him to the train station in Bingham with a pleading voice on the phone. Greg couldn’t say no to that. John was his best mate, and he hadn’t asked for anything from him in their entire friendship. However when questioned as to why, he’d shut down. Greg didn’t press further. He could sense something was deeply wrong. Why had John called him in the first place? Nowadays, he called Sherlock for everything. Maybe they’d had their first fight? That didn’t answer why they were driving to bloody Bingham at the crack of fuck, however.

When they arrived, Greg followed John to the platform, and sat next to him on a bench that was hidden from general view. John sat quietly, and only moved when a new train or new person arrived at the station.

For five hours, neither the trains nor the people were what he’d been waiting for. After the first half an hour, realizing John wasn’t going to say a word, Greg went back to the car to play some music, and pass the time. John didn’t even acknowledge that he spoke when he told him where he could find him if needed.

 

Greg passed out, and woke up with drool on his face. He listened to the radio for two hours, got bored, walked around for a bit. He checked back on John to find him still seated on the bench watching the rails with a forlorn gaze. He went back to the car, and put the radio back on.

When it was almost noon, he noticed a tall, dark figure in the distance, striding towards the station with big steps. The figure got closer and closer. It was Sherlock, wearing his silly long coat. He looked determined. He disappeared behind the station doors in a moment.

Greg got out of the car, and followed him. However before he could enter the building, his eyes found John through the window. John had seen Sherlock come in, in fact he was watching the man, who was for once oblivious to the things around him.

Greg went back to the car to wait for John. The train that was already at the station left when it was exactly twelve. Five minutes later, John was in the car with red rimmed eyes, and an even hollower expression on his face. He knew not to say anything. He started the car, and drove in the direction they’d come from.

 

He’d known Sherlock to never let anyone play with his toys, in fear they would break them with their idiocy. However he’d never seen him break one of his own toys before. He knew John. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t talk about whatever had happened between him and Sherlock. He had never talked about anything important in his whole life, and Greg was very much aware Sherlock was the most important thing that had ever happened to him. It was incredible that he’d allowed him to see this much already.

His friend would slowly die inside, and Greg would just have to watch it happen, hoping for a miracle.

 


	12. Part II: Into Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos!  
> And now time for a change of perspective in the story. Enjoy :)

The last whiff of the fresh air of the countryside had finally left his lungs. He was now inhaling London whose absence he’d felt dearly. Had he felt it dearly? Or was that just what he thought he should have felt when he set foot in the busy city once again? What was he supposed to do here exactly? He didn’t have any pursuits to go back to. University certainly didn’t count. The only thing he was ever interested in before was no longer an option. In any case, he didn’t want it to be. He’d spent months in his childhood home to kick the habit, albeit forced at first. However he’d managed to curb his desire for cocaine, and he wasn’t about to reacquire a vulnerability which, he knew, had led him to do things he would never have done if he had his wits about him. His new-found iron will effectively eliminated half of his sexual prospects. Having sex with women was one thing when intoxicated. However, when the effects of the drugs wore off, Sherlock always regretted his actions. Of course, he could go on sleeping with random men to pass the time, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to even contemplate somebody else’s body touching his. Not somebody else’s. No. Anybody’s. He scoffed at himself. Else implied there was a body he wanted. There was no body. He no longer needed drugs or sex. Perhaps now he could direct his brain to more worthy occupations.

 

He settled in his new flat which Mycroft was paying for. The days went by, spent between the flat and school. He tried very hard to come up with something that piqued his interest, but it was in vain. With every failed attempt, the thoughts that he tried even harder to repress came crashing in to his mind. He collected his beakers, and started an involved experiment, only to be reminded of John’s hands, softly wiping an exploded solution off  his face with a towel. He reached for his violin to dissipate the unwanted thoughts, finding himself playing John’s favourite compositions. He thought maybe he could paint, without a foul memory intruding on his peace of mind. He’d never done that when he was back home. However the brushstrokes conspired against him as well. The canvas ended up in the garbage with half of John’s smiling face over it. He even considered joining clubs at the university to see if he’d like anything he hadn’t given a chance before. However even the thought of the necessary social interaction in such a situation was too much for him to bear. He walked the streets aimlessly, hoping to be inspired by something.  

On one such day, he found himself ambling by St.Bart’s. He paused in front of the building, and gazed at the windows with a yearning he’d never felt before. He couldn’t restrain his feet when he noticed a group walking in, and followed them inside. He didn’t know what he expected to see. It wasn’t like John would be here every hour of every day. Besides the building was huge. He certainly couldn’t find him in there. And what would he do if he did anyway? Get thrown out, most likely. He strolled the corridors anyhow, hoping to catch a glimpse of a blonde head not looking in his direction. It would be enough.

Of course no such thing happened. He took a cab back home as if he had all the money in the world to waste. He needed to find a job soon. Mycroft was going to stop paying his rent as soon as Sherlock graduated. He chased the thoughts of his infuriating brother out of his head, and picked up his laptop from the cluttered floor of his living room. He went on the student portal of St.Bart’s, and did a bit of hacking - which meant guessing at John’s password for an hour - to get to his weekly schedule.

 

Afterwards, he started following John from a distance. This wasn’t conducive to learning what was going on in the younger man’s life, however Sherlock contented himself with the sight of his beautiful, innocent face. If asked right about then, perhaps he would agree that he’d made a huge mistake about a year prior to the first time he once again laid eyes on John. He refused to dwell on it, however. He lived in his own dream world from then on, watching John smile at someone, and imagining the smile was directed at him. John smiled a lot around people, which gave Sherlock a twisted feeling in his chest area someone other than him would name jealousy. However when alone John looked dejected, almost broken. The feeling seeing that created in Sherlock was far far worse than jealousy. He couldn’t stand it. Deep down, he retained the memory of filling his shiny eyes with tears, and hearing him over the splashes of water he’d turned on as a shield against the sounds of weeping coming from his room. However if he spared it any thought, it was likely he’d jump from the roof of St.Bart’s to his death. So he half-forgot the things he’d done to the boy, and watched his sometimes sad, sometimes smiling face from the shadows.

 

Of course going back to drugs had helped him tremendously with keeping inconvenient thoughts off his mind. Right after he’d caught a glimpse of John sitting on the pavement right outside St.Bart’s after a year without him, he went to an old haunt of his to get spectacularly drunk. He wasn’t used to drinking, so it didn’t take long before he was pissed enough to be prey to anyone looking to take advantage of him. Particularly, one Jim Moriarty who had been his drug dealer back when he was using.

“Sherlock, my dear, “ he cooed in Sherlock’s ear, putting his small hand on his thigh, “where have you been? Do you know how boring it gets around here without your pretty face?”

Sherlock pushed his hand off his leg. “Piss off, Moriarty.” he snarled.

Moriarty chuckled in a slimy tone. “Have you been cheating on me, love? You know I have the best stuff. If you weren’t happy with the quality, you only needed to say. I’d do anything for you.”

Sherlock kept his gaze on his tumbler. “I’m not interested.”

“Oh?” Moriarty sounded amused. “Given it up, have you? Well all for the best, I suppose. Now I can finally make good use of you.”

Sherlock looked at him this time with a confused expression in his eyes.

The corner of Moriarty’s lips turned up. “How would you like to make some money?”

 

Soon, Sherlock was producing all manner of chemical compounds for Moriarty with no thought to what they were being used for. He was out of school, he needed money to pay his rent, and he could use his skills in chemistry to his heart’s fill. He didn’t leave his flat, expect to follow John around, who seemed to be getting happier by the day. He met a lot of people in the next few years, leaving Sherlock with no other choice than to either crawl on the floor of his flat in jealousy fits, or go back to cocaine, and continue his stalking in a more detached mindset. Of course, it still didn’t stop him from seeing everybody who dared approach John as an enemy. He could never get close enough to observe their interaction in detail. Thus he couldn’t tell apart friend from lover. He was paranoid to the point of thinking John was sleeping with half of London. Perhaps they’d even shared conquests. He always smiled a bitter smile to himself when he saw John with the latest acquaintance he’d made. _I have certainly taught him well._

 

He went to John’s graduation, and watched him from afar. His sweet boy was now a doctor, and he was a drug producer. He’d probably provide him with some of his patients, in fact. He laughed. It was a hollow sound, caving in his chest. The man standing next to him with his girlfriend, who was clearly one of the new graduates, looked at him as if he was crazy. Could he have been in the same position now? He’d never let himself think like that, but now he couldn’t stop the thoughts flooding his mind. He could have been next to John right now, a hand on his waist, looking on proudly as people congratulated him. His eyes filled with tears for the first time since he was a child. What would a doctor be doing with someone who was spending his life doing everything he was opposed to? He left John laughing with his friends, and rushed past the happy couples and families with his tears spilling on his face. He took a cab to Moriarty’s lair - he couldn’t bring himself to call it a house, for Jim Moriarty was not a man, but a spider - removed the small penknife he always carried with him from his coat, and held it to Moriarty’s throat.

Moriarty smiled at him a repellent smile when he saw the vicious expression on Sherlock’s face. “What’s wrong, dear? Have I offended you somehow?”

Sherlock moved the knife closer to his skin.

Moriarty hissed.

“You will stay away from me from now on. You will not set foot in my flat or anywhere in my sight. We are done.” he growled.

“Alright, gorgeous. No need to get bent out of shape for,” He fixed his suit when Sherlock finally let him go. “Have a good life, Sherlock Holmes.” His features were set in an ominous way, which gave Sherlock a shiver down his spine.

He stepped out of the room, throwing the closed penknife at Moriarty. He never wanted to see that lizard-like face again.

 

He went home for Christmas for the first time in years when his landlord threw him out. His money had run out eventually without the income from Moriarty. The town hadn’t changed even one bit in 5 years. John would have hated it. He was smiling to himself inside Mrs.Hudson’s bookstore, looking at nothing in particular when she came up to him.

“Sherlock Holmes, is that you?”

He found himself in her arms in the next second without knowing how it’d happened. “Hello, Mrs.Hudson.”

“Hello, dear. My, look at how you’ve grown,” She smiled when Sherlock scoffed. “What are you doing back here? I thought I’d never see your pretty face again.”

Sherlock smiled shyly. “I’m here for Christmas.”

Mrs.Hudson gave him a suspicious look.

“My landlord kicked me out.” he relented.

Mrs.Hudson busted a laughter. Sherlock looked at her indignantly.

“So you will be living here again?

Sherlock was outraged at the suggestion. “God, no!” he yelled.

Mrs.Hudson chuckled at the silly boy. “Maybe, I can help you with your problem dear.”

Sherlock was all ears.

“I own a block of flats in London, but I can’t stand the city. They’re all rented out right now, but I’m sure I can figure something out for my favourite customer.” She winked at him.

He was excited beyond all expectation now. “Would you, Mrs.Hudson? Oh, that would be wonderful.” He hugged her this time, lifting the motherly woman in his arms in his enthusiasm.

She chuckled again. “Sherlock Holmes! Put me down this instant!”

He did as he was told, but he was still grinning at her. He suddenly remembered something, and took his wallet out of his pocket. He removed a wad of cash from the leather case, and held it out to Mrs.Hudson.

She eyed the money suspiciously. “What is this?”

“It’s probably not enough, but it’s all the money I have left. I may have purchased a first edition book from your store for the price of a new one at some point.”

She closed Sherlock’s fingers around the cash. “That’s alright, dear. Let’s say it was a gift to you.”

Sherlock smiled at Mrs.Hudson once again. Maybe this town wasn’t as bad as he remembered.

 

During his visit, he bumped into John’s old friend Lestrade, who was also back for the holidays, visiting his family. They chatted for a while about what they had been up to in the past years over coffees at Speedy’s. Of course, Sherlock had to omit most of what he’d done, seeing as Lestrade was now working for Scotland Yard in London. They talked about a case he was stuck on. Sherlock helped him solve it, finding himself not bored for the first time in ages without the aid of cocaine or John. Lestrade asked his opinion on a few more cases, and promised to show him the files when they got back to London.

“So,” Lestrade fidgeted, when they were done talking about police work.

Sherlock knew what was coming next. He’d been waiting for the conversation to take this turn the whole time.

“Do you still talk to John?”

He played with his spoon in lieu of answering for a few seconds. Should he ask Lestrade the same question? Did he want to know how happy John was without him? Could he handle it? In the end, he opted for the easier choice.

“No.”

Greg looked at him with what seemed like pity. At one time, Sherlock would have punched what he thought to be a smug expression off the man’s face. However, he knew the state he was in. He was to be pitied. He didn’t say anything else.

 

He found himself walking by the Watson residence. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d rung the doorbell. Maybe John was back for Christmas as well? His time to shut the door on Sherlock’s face had certainly come and gone. Sherlock wondered what he’d do instead while he waited for the door to open.

However, Mrs.Watson was the only one home. John and Harry weren’t coming back this year, and Mr.Watson had passed away. Mrs. Watson was very happy to see Sherlock. She wanted to bake him a pie like the old days, but Sherlock refused on grounds of time. They drank tea together, while Mrs.Watson questioned him as to what he’d been doing. Of course, the topic of John was inevitable.

“John’s-” the old woman started.

Sherlock held her off with a raised hand. “I’m sorry, Mrs.Watson. I can’t- John and I haven’t kept in touch and-” he trailed off, not quite knowing what to say.

She looked at him with understanding dawning on her face. She suddenly rose out of her seat, and almost jogged upstairs. A minute later, she was back with a photo of Sherlock and John, passed out together in front of the TV. She held it out to Sherlock, who was trying his best not to cry, and not succeeding.

“I can’t-”

“Yes, you can. And you will.”

Sherlock reached out apprehensively, and took the photo. Mrs.Watson left him by himself, clucking around in the kitchen. Sherlock stared at the picture for longer than he cared to admit, even though it was a tad blurry. His tears certainly made it even worse.

 

Back in London, he bought the plainest but most expensive frame he could find, and placed the picture of John and him sleeping inside. He set it on the nightstand, right next to his bed. It would fill the void he knew he was going to feel taking over his life, once he stopped stalking John. He had finally decided to let go.

He gazed at the photo with a nostalgic feeling inside him every night, and it remained there, his most prized possession, for the rest of his life. 


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock’s lashes fluttered as he tried to adjust his eyes to the light coming in from the window. He didn’t have any recollection of going to bed, which could only mean he was in a hospital once again. He examined the room quickly to confirm his suspicions. He needed to set an alarm to remind him to eat once he started a new case. He’d passed out on the fourth day. Thus the third day would do. He reached out to his phone on the nightstand, but before he could grab it, he heard the door being slammed into the wall. What kind of an arsehole made such a ruckus in a hospital?

 

When he caught sight of the two faces now inside his room, his mouth fell open. The loud, thoughtless, and disgustingly cheerful one in the front could have been enough to surprise him in the state he was in. However the face looking down at the patient files in his hand completely took his breath away. Lestrade had fucking brought him to St.Bart’s. Oh, he was going to murder him.

By now, the man standing closer had recognized him. “Sherlock?” he sounded taken aback as well.

The blonde head that had been busy with his papers thus far whipped up so fast, Sherlock thought it was going to snap. He gaped at Sherlock with his dark blue eyes wide open. Likewise Sherlock couldn’t pry his gaze away from the man he’d spent the past six years longing for.

The other doctor babbled on, unaware of the monumental event that was taking place right next to him.

“Oh wow! Sherlock Holmes! How long has it been since I last clapped eyes on you? Five? No, it must have been more. We were still third years. God! Look at you!” He paused for a second, finally having remembered John was standing next to him. “Oh sorry! This is John- Dr.John Watson. John, this is Sherlock-”

“Yeah, I know who he is, Victor.” he finally spoke, his eyes still on Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t even bother acknowledging Victor. “Hello, John.”

“Hello.” His tone was flat, giving away nothing of his thoughts.

Victor’s eyes flicked from one man to the other, noticing the weird tension between them.

“How are you?”

“Fine. And you?”

“Fine.”

Sherlock dropped his head to stare at his lap. He couldn’t bear the scrutiny any longer. In all honesty, he was aware there was nothing in the young doctor’s eyes to make him uncomfortable. Maybe, that was what scared him the most. Nothing. He realized he was just someone John used to know. Too much time had passed for there to be any meaning in his gaze.

John continued standing there quietly, as Victor attempted to break the silence.

“Ehm, well you’d passed out from low blood sugar when” He consulted his chart for a second, “constable Gregory Lestrade brought you in.”

John’s eyes opened wide once again at the mention of his friend’s name.

Sherlock didn’t dare explain what he was doing with Lestrade. He tried to turn his attention to Victor instead. “Yes, I may have let a few meals slip by.”

“That’s not on, Sherlock. You’re fine now but you really should take better care of yourself.” the doctor chided.

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock parried. He was looking everywhere but at John.

The response seemed enough for Victor, who was now back to his jolly old self. “Alright! Now, we have to catch up. I’m off at six and-”

“Excuse me, but I have to attend another patient.” John interrupted. “It was nice to see you again, Sherlock. Take care.”

He was out of the room before Sherlock could open his mouth.

Victor pressed on, unphased by John’s departure. He was as eager as he used to be. “Where do you live now? I can pick you up after work, or we can meet here-”

“Victor-”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock! It’s been years. You won’t even have one drink with me? I swear I’m not trying to get into your pants.” He held up his arms in surrender. “I have learnt my lesson years ago. You don’t get it more than once.“ He grinned like an idiot.

Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle. Victor’s persistence could be annoying, but he was also entertaining sometimes. What could one drink hurt? It was just two acquaintances catching up. Surely the fact that all the people he endured “catching up with” were friends of John was only a coincidence.

“I’ll come around at six.”

“Great! I’ll see you then. And don’t skip lunch!” Victor gave him a broad smile, and exited the room.

 

Sherlock’s thoughts turned back to John, as soon as he was alone. He hadn’t seen him in about a year. He had contented himself with the picture in his bedroom, concentrating on helping Lestrade instead of stalking John. He also took on a few cases of his own. He was almost happy. If he ignored the gaping hole in his heart, that is. He knew he’d never forget John. From what he’d witnessed so far, he knew people got over their failed romantic attempts in one or two years at most. He'd resigned himself to the fact that he was different in this, as he was in everything else. His last thoughts would probably be of John. However he was used to the pain by now. At least he thought he was. Seeing him again was...unsettling in the least, but also very thrilling. He was glad they hadn’t put him on a heart monitor, as that would have been very embarrassing. Or maybe not. John would probably assume it was a heart condition, or that the equipment was malfunctioning. He’d made sure years ago that the reality wouldn’t even occur to the man, hadn’t he?

 

At exactly six, he was once again in front of St.Bart’s, outwardly waiting for Victor Trevor, in reality hoping to see John Watson. One year of “letting go” had gone down the drain thanks to Lestrade’s thoughtlessness.

Victor finally appeared at the door after ten minutes, holding out his hands in an apology. “Sorry, sorry. The last patient was a little tricky.”

“That’s alright.” Sherlock’s eyes searched the entrance one last time, as Victor grabbed his elbow, and dragged him towards the pub across the street. John was nowhere to be found.

 

When they were seated at a table by the window - convenient for people-watching - with their drinks, Victor started interrogating him.

“So what have you been up to? Once you stopped coming to the Inn, we’ve lost all contact. Moriarty talked about you for months, you know.”

Sherlock grimaced. “I was tired of all that.”

“You?! Seriously? I mean, I can see you not coming to the pub, but quitting?”

“Yeah, well…” Sherlock’s gaze flitted between Victor and the street. “Do you still keep it up, then?”

“What? No, of course not! But I wasn’t as bad as you.” He grinned. “Although I still smoke a joint now and then. So no drugs, huh? Have you given up sex too?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Victor-” he warned.

“Alright, alright. But you can’t blame a bloke for trying.”

 

Victor continued smothering Sherlock in this manner for another hour. Sherlock didn’t hate every minute of it. Talking about his cases was certainly enjoyable, however Victor didn’t seem quite as interested in them. Sherlock gave him up for lost in the end. He didn’t really need someone else in his life anyway. Lestrade and the rest of the idiots at Scotland Yard at least had use for his brains. Victor would have only been around for sex. He certainly didn’t give up despite his protests that he wasn’t hitting on Sherlock.

 

A little after seven, he finally glimpsed a short figure, dressed up warmly against the chilling wind outside, running towards the tube station. His gaze followed the blonde’s movements until he was well out of sight.

“So how do you know Watson?”

Sherlock was startled out of his daze by the question. “We come from the same town.”

“Oh? That’s all?” Victor sounded mischievous.

Sherlock gave him an unamused look.

“It looked like there might be a bit more to it than that.”

“And if there was, how would that be any of your business?”

Victor held up his hands, as was his custom., feigning innocence. “I was just curious.”

“Well, don’t be.”

Sherlock knew what a gossip Victor was. He was probably going to question John later. He wondered if John would tell him the truth. _Yes, I was in love with him but he fucked me, laughed at me, then left me alone crying my eyes out._ Victor would probably support all the preconceived notions John had about him too. _Sounds like Sherlock! But isn’t he an animal in bed?_

“He’s hot though.” Victor piped up.

All the blood rushed to his face as he turned to look at the offending creature sitting opposite him. He clenched his fists under the table, ready to punch Victor any second.

He continued gushing, oblivious to the distress he caused Sherlock. “I asked him out the day I met him. He wasn’t interested though. Isn’t it strange when such a good looking man turns out not to be gay?”

Sherlock’s expression turned confused. Was Victor trying to trick him into revealing what had happened between them? Yes, John wasn’t gay, but that wasn’t what Victor meant, was it? He clearly implied John was straight. Did John keep his sexuality a secret?

“I still love watching him when he walks away, though. Great view, that.”

Sherlock gave the man another scathing look. He had to leave, or he was going to end up thrown out of the pub for socking Victor. That’d be a shame too. This was a great spot for- God fucking dammit! He really was an addict, wasn’t he?

  
He said his grudging goodbyes to Victor, then rose from his seat, knowing he’d be returning alone tomorrow. And the next day, and the next day, and the next day…


	14. Chapter 14

This pub might have been the most convenient thing that Sherlock had ever come across. Now granted, falling back on old habits that he knew to be a bit not good was not what he’d planned for himself, but then again, neither could he foresee he’d fall in love with the boy he’d merely seen as a great convenience at first. He’d deluded himself for so long that all he wanted from anybody was sex. How could he be expected to predict he’d turn into the most creepy sort of human being there is for the sake of love? He knew what he was doing was pathetic, yet he couldn’t help himself. After years of drought, having John’s gaze on him once again was like being caught in a downpour in a cool lake situated in a lush valley. When he left the room, Sherlock had felt like it’d all been a mirage. He’d been used to his absence until then. But now he was once again aware of his thirst. In the year he hadn’t set eyes on that bright face, it’d gotten even worse. Now that he’d heard his voice after such a long time, he yearned to hear it again and again.

He needed to conjure up an excuse to talk to him. Something that he couldn’t turn down. Sherlock was sure John didn’t attach any importance to what had happened between them anymore. Maybe this was his chance. Maybe he could have a new beginning. He could show John he was no longer the heartless bastard he once was, that he could care for him, and would cherish him above everything else. It was still possible John wouldn’t go for it at first. However, he’d surely consent to renewing their friendship at least. He was a good man. Sherlock knew this. He’d accept Sherlock’s presence in his life, even if it was just to be nice. From then on- Well he’d think about the rest of it later. He had to devise a plan to get his attention first. Maybe he could ask Victor for John’s phone number?

 

He continued to apportion his attention between the hospital entrance and the crime scene photos in front of him. It was his third evening here, and the staff seemed to already know him. A curly haired, dark skinned young woman brought him another whiskey, as soon as he emptied his tumbler.

“What’s all this then?”

Sherlock didn’t look up. “Crime scene photos.” he answered, half paying attention.

“Are you undercover?”

“What?” He raised his eyes from the photos to regard the clearly-bored barmaid who looked slightly disturbed by what she saw.

“Well you’ve been sitting by the window, watching someone for the past three evenings.”

Sherlock turned a bit red at how obvious he’d been.

“So are you?”

“Am I what?”

The woman rolled her eyes, probably thinking she’d come across an idiot. “Undercover?”

“Oh. No. I’m not with the police.”

The bartender plopped herself on to the chair next to Sherlock. “I’m Sally.”

Sherlock surveyed her in confusion.

“So what are you doing then?”

“I’m a consulting detective.”

“What’s that?”

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat. “Don’t you have to get back to the bar?”

“Nah. Too early for customers.” She grinned. “Except for you.”

“Hm.” Sherlock went back to inspect his photos, deciding it was the most effective way to send away the unwanted company.

 

Once Sally left, Sherlock was once again free to check the street every once in a while to see if John’s shift ended. Finally, he glimpsed his blonde head through the glass doors of the hospital. Sherlock expected him to turn left, just as he’d been doing for the past three evenings, to get to the tube station. However, when John stepped out, he stood, looking around for someone for a few seconds. His face brightened with a smile when he found whoever it is he was looking for, and strode towards them with sure steps.

It was a blonde woman, shorter than John, sporting a long red coat. _What an attention whore_ , Sherlock thought bitterly. He watched on as John gave her a peck on the lips, and they said their greetings. By the time, John and the mystery woman had strolled away hand in hand, Sherlock was simmering with jealousy. His knuckles had turned white with the force he was holding his tumbler. He slammed it down with a thump, splashing whiskey everywhere. He ignored the eyes he felt on him, as he threw some cash on the table and walked out in a rage.

John had a girlfriend. Sherlock didn’t know why he was reacting this way. There’d always been so many people around John, all of whom Sherlock hated with an exquisite passion. He’d always assumed John had been sleeping around with everyone he smiled at. What was so different now? He could easily see himself, walking up to the woman and deducing every little secret she had until he made her cry, and run as far as she could. Was it because she had kissed those beautiful lips right in front of him? Or was it because Sherlock had actually decided to something about his feelings for once, and wanted for once to feel luck on his side? He was so tired. Years of wanting someone, longing for someone, someone who was not even aware of his existence had taken a lot out of him. For once, he thought, maybe, he’d been excused for what he had done, and he’d been given this chance to fix it all. He scoffed at himself as he paced the streets with a lit cigarette in his long fingers. The only person who could excuse him, forgive him was John. It’s not like there was a big power out there who controlled the universe. Sentimentality clearly didn’t do wonders for his logic. He dropped the half-smoked fag on the pavement, and put it out under his sole. Then he pivoted on his heel to walk in the direction of his flat, his long coat billowing behind him dramatically.

 

He had lost the will to make a move after seeing John with the attention whore. However he kept returning to the table by the window, which had become his before the week was out. As soon as he entered, Sally supplied him with his whiskey, and pointed to the table, which had a reserved sign on.

The cheerful bartender didn’t leave him alone either. When she had nothing to do, she’d invite herself to Sherlock’s table, and chatter idly. Sometimes Sherlock said a few words as well, commenting on the other regulars, and making Sally laugh. She only fell silent when John appeared at the hospital door. This kindness always went unnoticed by Sherlock, because whenever John appeared, everything else around him disappeared. He wouldn’t have heard her even if she kept prattling on.

 

One evening, during his second week at the pub, Sherlock was watching the street, waiting for John to come out, when the little bell above the door rang, announcing the arrival of a new customer. His gaze slid in the direction of the entrance as a reflex. He was about to turn his attention back to the hospital, when he registered who it was. The attention whore had come to his pub. Oh this was rich. She had taken his man, and now she wanted his pub too? Sherlock was trembling with barely concealed rage, when Sally caught his eyes. What was that he saw on her face? Compassion? Pity? She went back to work before Sherlock could discern what he was seeing. The whore had asked for some cocktail or other, and now she was making small talk with his bartender as she waited. To be fair to Sally, she didn’t seem very happy to be in that position. Sherlock wondered why she looked like somebody had just squashed a slice of very sour lemon in her mouth. In fact, from what he could hear, she was being quite rude to the whore. One corner of his mouth went up without any intention on his part, and Sally grinned back at him.

The little bell rang again, and his head turned of his own accord to check who the cause of the sound was. He froze as he locked eyes with John. John looked taken aback for a few seconds, before he schooled his expression. He nodded at Sherlock, and turned away quickly. He strode to the bar to sit by the whore’s side, and kissed her cheek.

Sherlock was aware how childish he was being, but he reasoned he was free to think someone was a whore in his own mind, and still look every bit collected and calm as he usually did. The degree of his success in this endeavour was a whole other matter.

He sat quietly by the window, as John and his girlfriend did whatever they did. He couldn’t bear even a glance at their frankly revolting happiness, yet he couldn’t leave right after John had noticed him there either. He stared into his glass, and sloshed around the whiskey in it, trying to tune out any bit of the conversation that made its way to him.

 

After a few minutes, Sally appeared by his table.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm? Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I just-” Her eyes flicked to the couple sitting at the bar. “I wish I could throw her out.”

Sherlock was befuddled. “I- You- What?” he stuttered.

“Come on, Sherlock! Do you think I haven’t noticed why you’re here every single day? Even though you know he doesn’t have work all week, you watch the entrance like a hawk. I’m not blind, you know.”

Sherlock regarded Sally with more attention than he’d given her up till now. She was observant, that was certain. Normally that might have excited Sherlock, however when any such scrutiny was turned on him, especially when he was letting his guard down more than usual, he didn’t know how to feel about it.

“Are you alright?” she repeated.

He drained what was left of the whiskey in his glass, then attempted to concentrate his taunting thoughts. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

Sally lowered herself onto the chair next to him, and waited patiently for him to talk.

“I’ve never talked about something like this.”

“What? Never?”

He nodded.

“Well, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. I just wanted to see if you needed something.”

Sherlock smiled at her. “Something to dull my senses perhaps?”

Sally chuckled. “You got it.”

When she came back with a bottle of 25 year old scotch, grinning like a maniac, Sherlock let out a merry guffaw. In the background, he caught John doing what seemed like a slight tilting of his head at the sound, as if he wanted to peek at what was happening behind him. Sherlock shook the thoughts from his head, and looked back at Sally. It was just wishful thinking.

She was still grinning at him with a mischievous light in her eyes. “On the house.” She set the bottle down in front of Sherlock, before she sauntered back to her post.

 

John left with the whore about an hour later, off to God knows where, only to return a few days later, this time with a few doctor friends, including Victor.

Sherlock had seen them approaching the pub, so this time he had half a minute to cover himself. He rose from his seat, and grabbed a stupid looking hat from the rack. He was at his table, his head lowered, and his face hidden behind the hat, when the group came in. They found a booth in the back of the pub, and proceeded to make a racket. Sherlock was glad Sally didn’t have a shift today. He didn’t want to deal with questions about his feelings.

He watched on, as the group got more pissed with every passing minute. John was talking about something animatedly, when he finally spotted Sherlock. His brows furrowed at the sight. Sherlock averted his eyes quickly, however the damage was done.

 

In a moment, he heard footsteps coming towards him, but kept his gaze on his drink. The footsteps ceased, and somebody sat themselves down next to him.

“Hulloo-sh- Sherrrlock!” he heard Victor slur.

He let his head fall to the table in exasperation at the voice. He felt one of Victor’s hands creep onto his thigh.

“I heard you been comin round lately, gorgeous. Missed me?”

Sherlock tried to control his anger. He pushed Victor’s hand off his leg, and stole a glance at John to see if he noticed the movement. However John was busy, listening intently to a story one of his doctor chums was telling.

“C'mon, Sherrlock! How long are you gunna play hard to get?” He leaned against Sherlock’s side, and put his hand back on his thigh.

The insistence which would usually be merely annoying to the aloof man was now making his blood boil. He couldn’t help himself, as he pushed Victor off himself violently.

“Get the FUCK off me!”

Victor fell of his chair like a sack of potatoes, looking up at Sherlock in bewilderment. The whole pub had gone quiet, and everybody was watching them. Including John. For the first time since Sherlock ran into him again at St.Bart’s, he let his face show an emotion. He looked baffled, and also a tiny bit guilty.

Sherlock had no time to consider what it meant. He couldn’t stand being there for one more second. He grabbed his coat from the rack, and rushed out of the pub without looking back.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock was lazing about in the bed when he heard the doorbell. He ignored it, and went back to staring at the ceiling. However, whoever was at the door was relentless. When it was obvious that the trouble wasn’t going to go away on its own, Sherlock dragged himself up from the bed, wrapping himself up in the sheets. The doorbell rang once again.

“For God’s sake” he growled, as he threw open the door. “What!”

He came face to face with a very sorry looking Victor Trevor. He heaved a sigh, and made to shut the door in his greasy face, but Victor was quicker. He insinuated his foot between the door and its frame.

“Sherlock, could we talk for a second?”

Sherlock attempted to close the door on the insistent man’s foot. “The address on my website is for clients only, Victor.”

“Look, I’m sorry. Will you just let me in? I only want to apologize.”

“No need. Apology accepted. Now go away!”

“I’d rather explain myself.”

Knowing Victor would stand there all day with his apparently iron foot, he stepped aside, and gave him access into the flat.

Victor hesitated in the doorway after seeing Sherlock was only in a sheet.

The shameless host, on the other hand, was anxious to get this all over with. “Well what are you dawdling for? Come in!”

Victor shambled in, looking around awkwardly. Sherlock pointed him to a chair that he reserved for clients, and plopped himself down on one of the armchairs by the fireplace. He gave the man his most focused stare, which made better men than Victor uneasy.

“Um-” He fidgeted.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you’ve already mentioned that.”

“I swear I had no intention of doing anything like that.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, with no faith in the truth of Victor’s words.

“Truly! I hadn’t even noticed you there.” He paused for a moment. “But then John asked me if I was going to talk to you.”

This got Sherlock’s attention. “What?”

“Yeah, he said I didn’t have to hide from him.”

“Hide what?”

“That I was seeing you.”

Sherlock gaped at nothing in particular, his eyes blinking rapidly, trying to process what he was hearing.

“He said he knew I was seeing you. Apparently he’d noticed you in the pub a couple of times before. And when he pointed to you… I thought maybe you could be there for me- and I was pissed, so very pissed.”

The genius opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out for a few seconds.

“Sherlock? I’m really sorry.”

“Right. Yes. It’s alright. So- John thought I was waiting for you?”

“Yeah-  Look, I should’ve known. I mean the way you were looking at him before, in the hospital, and all the tension.”

Sherlock’s gaze whipped back to Victor. “Tension? What tension?”

“I couldn’t know the great untouchable Sherlock Holmes would fall for someone. You were always so disdainful of relationships and romance. But I guess everybody grows up, huh?”

If the earth had opened up right now, and swallowed Sherlock, he would certainly have no objections. What was wrong with him? Every dimwit who spent two seconds in his company noticed his feelings. Except John. And wasn’t that just fucking hilarious?

“I know what it feels like to fall for a straight guy.The impossibility of it all draws you in more. But Sherlock, you’ve got to get over it. He won’t ever be yours.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth at the idiot who thought he was giving him great life advice. He restrained himself from throwing his deductions in his face, about how he was still chasing three men at the same time, none of whom had any interest in him. How would he know anything about relationships? It would be so very satisfying to see his expression, however Sherlock still needed him. He took a deep breath, and ignored his already bruised pride one more time.

“I need his number.”

“What- Sherlock, were you even listening to me? He’s straight. He’s in a relationship, a serious one. You won’t get anywhere-”

“Those problems are all mine to worry about. Now the number?” He held out his hand, expecting Victor to pass him his phone.

“No, Sherlock. Sorry, I can’t do that.”

Sherlock’s hand faltered.

“I can’t just give out my friends’ numbers like that. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him for it, if you want it.”

“I see.” He rose from his seat with a fake smile plastered on his face. “Well, it was really nice to see you, Victor. Hopefully, for the last time.” he chirped, then opened the door, and pointed in the direction of the stairs. “Now piss off.”

The whiplash Sherlock’s change in behaviour could give anyone wasn’t wasted on Victor either. He was soon out in the hall with the door slammed in his face.

 

Sherlock paced the room for a while, trying to come up with a way to get a hold of John’s number. Of course, he could just call him at St.Bart’s, or go up and talk to the man himself, but he didn’t quite know what he’d say. In any case, he preferred texting. He needed his mobile number, and the only way left to get it was unfortunately his unbearable prat of a brother.

He hated asking him for any favours, let alone such a big one. However, he wasn’t about to break in to John’s office for information, either. He exhaled, a put upon sigh on his lips. How come Lestrade hadn’t kept in touch with John? That would have made everything so much easier.

He pressed the keys on his phone’s touchscreen reluctantly.

_I need to you to find me a phone number._

As soon as he sent the message, his phone rang. He rolled his eyes, and answered the call.

“Yes?”

“Is it for a case?”

He didn’t want to say, but Mycroft knew John, and, to Sherlock’s great dismay, he was no idiot.

“No.”

“Go on, then.”

He could hear the smirk in Mycroft’s voice. He knew Sherlock would owe him one after this.

“I need John Watson’s mobile number.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “John Watson?”

“Yes, Mycroft! You’ve heard me perfectly well!” Sherlock spit out. He was at the end of his patience. He didn’t appreciate being looked down upon, and recently it seemed like it was happening all the time.

“Alright, calm down. I will get back to you with your old ‘friend’s’ number. Good afternoon, dear brother.”

The old dial phones certainly had one advantage over the mobiles. You could slam down the receiver back in its place after a conversation with your brother.

Sherlock contented himself with throwing his phone across the room, and stalking back to his bedroom. He dropped the sheet from his shoulders, and jumped into the bed, burrowing his face into his pillow.

 

He dreamed of his old room. He was lying on his bed, reading in the dark somehow, when John, as he was six years ago, appeared on top of him, chuckling lightly. Suddenly the room was bright with the early afternoon sun. He put his hands on Sherlock’s ribs, and started tickling him. Sherlock didn’t try to stop the boy. He only laughed, cherishing John’s hands on him. He laughed, and laughed until the dream morphed into another moment. Now Sherlock was on top of eighteen-year-old John, and he was kissing him like his life depended on it. John’s small hands were on his arse, caressing slowly. He broke the kiss to whisper something  into Sherlock’s ear.

“I loved you.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open with the effect of the dream. He couldn’t recall what it was about, but he remembered John’s shining eyes. As he made to stand up, he realized he had an erection. He plopped back down onto the mattress, and took himself in hand. His eyes drifted shut at the sensation. His old room popped into his mind with suitcases open everywhere, surprising him. John was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking like somebody had shattered him into million pieces. He’d never masturbated to thoughts of John, and this was his worst memory. He didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t get it out of his head. As if that wasn’t troubling enough, he was still as hard as a rock.

Perhaps he could make this awful memory into a happy fantasy. He imagined himself laying John down on his bed gently. John’s forlorn expression changed into a content one. His eyes were closed, and he had a tiny smile on his lips. Sherlock imagined away their clothes, as he stroked himself quickly. He visualized straddling John’s thighs, and pushing himself onto his cock, like he had that last day. The dream Sherlock moved himself up and down on John’s erection, as the pace of the real Sherlock’s hand on his penis quickened. He looked into John’s beautiful dark blue eyes, and his orgasm hit him.

He hadn’t come like this in years. He relaxed on the bed, panting slowly, trying to remember what John felt like cuddled in his arms. He hadn’t had sex in six years, and he didn’t masturbate often either. When he did, it was a quick wank in front of his computer. He didn’t like the sounds the actors made, so he turned off the volume completely, and watched the parts where he couldn’t see their faces. It was effective, didn’t require memories or imagination. Therefore there was no pain. After today, he didn’t think he could go back to it. He hadn’t been aware how powerful John’s face in his mind-eye would be. The faceless porn stars couldn’t help him anymore.

 

He wiped himself off with the sheet he picked up from the floor, and went into the shower. Half an hour later, he was dressed and ready to go the pub.  He found his phone in a corner of the living room, and saw one missed call and a text from Mycroft.

_John’s number is attached. I took the liberty of having him questioned, seeing as how you are interested in the man. He doesn’t seem to have any disconcerting affiliations. Enjoy._

Sherlock gritted his teeth at Mycroft’s nerve, considering fratricide for the eleventh time this month. He’d had John questioned! Oh, this was so not good. He’d make Mycroft pay for this later. However, first he had to make things right with John.

 

He programmed the number into his phone, and quickly typed out a text, ignoring the fact that Mycroft’s actions had given him a reason to initiate conversation in the first place.

_I apologize for any inconvenience my brother may have caused you, John. I will make sure nothing like that will ever happen again. I hope you’re alright. SH_

He pressed send, and stared at his phone for fifteen minutes until the screen lit up with an incoming message.

_Oh, so it was Mycroft who had me kidnapped earlier today. I should’ve guessed. It wasn’t pleasant, but I survived. Thank you for your concern._

Sherlock felt giddy with excitement. John didn’t sound mad. He hadn't asked what Mycroft wanted with him, obviously not wanting to get involved, but still he seemed comfortable with acknowledging his past with Sherlock, and that was a good start. In addition, he was as clever as ever. He hadn’t questioned where Sherlock got his number from. He knew Mycroft’s capabilities. Even if he didn’t, he certainly could figure it out after the unfortunate kidnapping incident today. Oh, the fattie was going to suffer.

Sherlock wrote another message with haste. He had no intention of letting this opportunity for communication pass.

_Oh you have no idea. The Mycroft you knew was certainly powerful- and creepy. However, it’s safe to say he is the British Government now. If you notice the CCTV cameras turning in your direction, a salute of the two-fingered kind may be in order._

 

After his humorous text- which he knew the old John would’ve appreciated- he stared at his phone for a little longer, before he busied himself with his violin. He knew the sounds coming from the instrument were possibly driving the neighbours up the wall, but he was too distracted to try and play something proper. He kept glancing at his phone, hoping for a one word message, if nothing else. However, it never came. It was disappointing, but he could certainly try again later. John had replied once. Sherlock could probably coax him into replying again, make sure he wrote something John’d have to answer.

Yes, now he had to show perseverance. He had to be charming. He had to be funny, and interesting. John had loved him once, he could love him again.


	16. Chapter 16

8 February

 _Hello John. I just wanted to apologize about the spectacle in the pub the other day. I hope I didn’t disturb your gathering. SH_ 17:56

You didn’t disturb us, don’t worry. It was none of our business. 21:03

 _I wanted you to know I don’t just attack people out of the blue. I believe Victor was intoxicated, and I lost my patience. He can be a bit insistent, you see._ 21:05

 _He’s your friend, I’m sure you know him better than me._ 22:30

 _I’m not seeing him, you know._ 22:45

It’s not my business, Sherlock. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. 22:50

 _I hit your friend. I don’t hit people. Well not unless my life is threatened._ 22:51

 _I couldn’t help myself. It is irritating when an acquaintance from your past thinks he has the right to pester you just because you had sex with him once years ago._ 23:01

Exactly. 23:12

 

9 February

 _Are you close friends with Victor?_ 13:45

 _He apologized for his behaviour. So no need to be discomfited by him. He’s actually a good person, even with all his faults._ 13:50

 _I suppose you know that or you wouldn’t be friends with him._ 13:51

 _I wouldn’t really know how to choose friends. Don’t have any. That probably doesn’t surprise you very much, does it?_ 15:33

 _Well I suppose there is Lestrade, but he is more a colleague than friend._ 15:35

 

10 February

 _You are a doctor. Do you know what causes dark red lines to appear on the skin? They look like the person’s been flogged with a thin wire whip._ 00:45

 

 _Sorry about last night. I didn’t realize it was so late. Sometimes I lose track of time when I’m on a case. In fact, that was the reason I was hospitalized three weeks ago. Forgot to eat. I’m a consulting detective, you see._ 12:25

 _It is a very interesting case. This man called Fitzroy McPherson, who swam regularly, was drowned in a calm lagoon in Sussex yesterday. Right before he died, he said “the lying main”, and his torso was covered in dark red lines. Any ideas?_ 18:48

 _The police here are idiots. No surprise there I reckon. Lestrade is fairly competent, but you should see the others. Sometimes I feel like they must be faking stupidity just to have me on._ 19:35

 _I haven’t told you how I came to be working with Lestrade.  I was back home last christmas, and I bumped into him. He asked for my help with a case he was stuck on, and now I’m helping Scotland Yard when they’re in over their heads, which is always. I think he might be on his way to a promotion_. 23:11

 

12 February

 _He was saying “the lion’s mane”, not “the lying main”! The idiot who was there when he died misheard him! That took me longer than it should have. The lion’s mane is a poisonous jellyfish. McPherson was stung by one, and knew what it was because he was a science teacher in a secondary school, and interested in marine life._ 15:47

 _It’s good to be back in London._ 17:00

 _I need a new case._ 17:23

 _I need you._ 23:58

 

15 February

 _I miss your touch._ 19:47

 

16 February

 _It’s difficult seeing you from afar, and not being able to do anything._ 22:00

 

18 February

 _Can’t we be friends at least?_ 17:21

 _What do you see in her?_ 19:34

 

19 February

 _Please, just give me one chance. Talk to me._ 00:02

 _I’ve thought about nothing but you for the past six years. Nothing helps._ 04:42

 

 _Whoever you are, you have to stop bothering John. He’s in a very happy relationship._ 04:44

 _You are the blonde with the red coat, I presume. I wasn’t aware going through your boyfriend’s phone was part of a happy relationship._ 04:45

 _Who the hell are you to judge me? You are stalking a man who wants nothing to do with you._ 04:47

 _Oh? Has he told you so himself?_ 04:47

 _Piss off! And leave John alone!_ 04:48

 _I’m afraid that won’t be happening any time soon._ 04:49

 _Your number isn’t in his phonebook. Who are you?_ 06:30

 _Maybe you should ask him that. See if he will tell you._ 12:04

 

Sherlock lay awake in his bed, satisfied with how much he’d riled the whore. John hadn’t told her about him, so there was a very good chance she wasn’t aware of his sexuality. That would be very problematique for any relationship. Even if she didn’t mind her boyfriend’s interest in men, she’d certainly have difficulty coming to terms with being lied to for so long about such a fundamental aspect of his life. Oh this was going to be a good day.

He lunged out of bed, and almost skipped to the bathroom to get ready. He was whistling for God’s sakes. He had never whistled in his entire life before. He happily washed his body and his hair, donned his most expensive suit and shirt, and made his way to the pub to kill time reading until it was time for John to go home. Maybe he’d even chat to Sally today. Why not? It was a good day, after all.

 

When he arrived, he hung his coat on the rack, and gave Sally a dazzling smile as she handed him his usual.

“What’s up with you? Have you won the lottery or something?”

He grinned at her, and sauntered away in the direction of his table.

She followed him, poking his shoulder with her sharp fingernails. “Come on! What’ve you done? You have to tell me!” She took the chair across from him, and continued poking him until he gave in.

“Ow! Stop it! Fine, I’ll tell you.”

She smiled triumphantly.

“I may have ruined John’s relationship.”

“And John is?”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

“Oh. The blonde bloke who works at the hospital?”

“He’s a doctor. And yes, that’s him.”

“How did you do it then? C’mon! Give me the details!”

“Not much to say really. I’ve been texting him, which he’s been ignoring. His girlfriend replied instead last night. She doesn’t know who I am, and I have a hunch she might want to quench her thirst for knowledge soon.” He beamed.

“Oh, you are a bad man, Sherlock Holmes.” Sally teased.

He shrugged. “He was mine first.”

“Wait a second.” Sally ran to the bar, and grabbed another tumbler, and a bottle of whiskey. She poured some for herself, and then set the bottle on the table. She took a sip, and hummed in appreciation, before she prodded Sherlock in the arm. “Go on.”

“There’s nothing more to say.”

“So he was your boyfriend before? What happened? Why did you break up?”

Sherlock fidgeted with his cuff. “Well, he wasn’t so much my boyfriend.”

“Oh?”

“But he was mine!” he rushed to underline.

“And how does that work exactly? Was he your slave?”

“We were- he was- I didn’t-”

Sally took pity on him. “That’s alright. So you were…” She pondered for a second. “something.”

“Yeah.”

“And something bad happened. Something you did, I’m guessing?”

Sherlock averted his gaze. “Yes.”

“When was this?”

“Six years ago.”

“Dear God. So you’ve-”

 

Before Sally could finish her thought, John had materialized by the table, and was yelling at Sherlock at the top of his lungs. She snuck back to the bar. However, in that atmosphere, it was possible she wouldn’t be noticed even if she had stomped her feet, chanting _You will never walk alone_ with thousands of Liverpool fans. Their eyes were locked onto each other.

“What the hell do you want from me?” John barked. “Have you not taken enough? There must be hundreds of people you can fuck over before you clear off and move onto someone else!”

Sherlock opened his mouth to defend himself, but John didn’t let him speak.

“No! If you think you can trick me with lies about how I am your "one”, you are sorely mistaken. I won’t let you destroy me this time. It’s taken me four years to get over you. Four miserable years of questioning where I'd gone wrong. In the end I realized I hadn’t. I’d done nothing wrong. It was all your fault. So I tried my best to stop thinking about you. Do you know how hard that was? And now that I’ve finally moved on, I have someone I love, someone who loves me back, you are here to hurt me again. I won’t let you. Find someone else to entertain you, and stay the hell away from us!”

 

Sherlock was left frozen, staring at John’s receding back. His thoughts had come to a complete halt, his body was suspended the way it’d been when John came in, he wasn’t even breathing. Sally rushed over to him, and put her hand on his shoulder slowly.

“Sherlock? Sherlock? Are you alright?” She moved her hand to his back, in a circular, calming motion.

The traumatized man blinked a few times in rapid succession. His eyes slowly found their focus again. He let out a choked sound, pushed away Sally’s hand, and ran out of the pub.

  
It was pouring outside, but Sherlock didn’t even notice he’d left his coat on the rack. His mind had shut down. He trudged through the wet city, with tears running down his face for hours, and only made his way back home when there were no more raindrops to punish him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst is almost over. Bear with me.


	17. Interlude II

Why the hell was it so hot in bloody May? It was the middle of the bloody night too. Sex tended to increase the body temperature, yes, but it’d been half an hour already. Maybe he was sick? He hadn’t drunk that much. Or had he?

“Oh bugger” he muttered.

The cabbie was watching him through the rear view mirror, probably to make sure he didn’t ruin the upholstery. “Eh?”

“Noth’n.” he slurred.

The taxi drew to a halt in front of his building.

“We’re here.”

 

He paid the cabbie what he hoped wasn’t double the fare, and staggered out of the car. He was in the process of finding his keys in his pocket when he heard a familiar voice.

“Hullo, mate!”

Victor didn’t have to look up to confirm who it was, as John was sitting on his doorstep, every bit pissed as he was. John gave him a crooked grin.

“What time ’sit?”

His surprise guest consulted his phone. “It’s four-oh-seven.” He held on to the doorknob to rise, then moved slightly to the side to allow Victor to unlock the door.

The two inebriated men tottered inside arm-in-arm. It was obvious that John was drunk out of his mind. He was giggling for God’s sake. That was just plain odd. They climbed the stairs to his third floor flat together, Victor managing to hold up John in his own drunkenness. He dropped him onto the couch, tottered into the kitchen to make some coffee. His friend was clearly in need of being cared for. He wouldn’t say no to some caffeine either.

 

When he went back in with two steaming cups, he found John half lying down, humming a song to himself. He helped the man sit up straighter, and pushed the mug into his hand.

“I haven’t been able to get this song out of my head for the past- I ‘ont ‘ow- months.” the blonde piped up, with surprising clarity. He couldn’t move properly, but apparently even this amount of alcohol didn’t affect his speech. “I fuckin’ hate it, Victor. It used to get stuck in my head all the time when I was in college. Who knew I would never forget it?” His voice went quiet with the last sentence, and his gaze became distant.

“Are ya alright, mate?”

He continued staring at nothing. “No. I’m not.”

Victor moved from the chair to the couch to sit next to him.

“Mary and I broke up.”

The drunken host put a hand on John’s shoulder to comfort him. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

Victor waited for an explanation.

“I can’t stop thinking about him, Victor. Ever since I saw him at the hospital, he’s all I think about.”

“He?”

“Sherlock.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “Oh. So...you are?”

“I’m what?”

“Not straight?”

John’s lips quirked up in amusement. “No, I’m- bisexual, I guess.”

“Ya guess?”

“I haven’t really been with anyone other than Sherlock. Any blokes, I mean.”

Victor almost dropped his cup at this revelation. So John and Sherlock had…

John shook his head slightly, and redirected the conversation. “It’s not fair to Mary. I can’t be with her while someone else is on my mind.”

“I s'pose not.”

“Am I the most self-destructive person on the face of the planet or what? I let her go for a fantasy, and she was-” He considered something for a second. “Yeah. She was the best thing that could’ve possibly happened to me.”

“Possibly?”

John’s eyes dropped to his coffee. “It’s not like Sherlock’s ever gonna want me.”

“What d’you mean? The man’s crazy about you. You’ve managed to tame Sherlock bloody Holmes! Have ya seen th’ way he looks at you?”

“He only wants sex.”

“Only from you!”

“Yeah well that’s not all I want!” John snapped. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. I just- I want him to want to be with me, and not just for sex.”

“Why d’you think he doesn’t?”

“He said he’s been thinking about me for the past six years.”

Victor’s brows furrowed in confusion. “So he does want it.”

“I don’t know, Victor. You know him too. How likely is it that he’s telling the truth? He must think it’s a challenge to get me to forgive him.”

“What’s he done?”

John didn’t answer for a while, looking sadder than before, if that was possible. Victor moved his hand that had been sitting on the man’s shoulder in a comforting rhythm.

“He was cruel.”

He didn’t want to push the man further. “Alright.” He moved his hand to John’s nape, and began caressing it. “Alright, you don’t have to talk about it.”

John put his cup on the coffee table, and leaned back again. “He’s not texting me anymore.”

“He was texting you?”

“Yeah. I screamed at him to leave me alone. He did, and now I miss the stupid messages he’d been sending me about his cases.”

Victor’s fingers were combing through John’s hair now. John leaned into the touch.

“I went to the pub today. He wasn’t there, either. The bartender knew who I was. She told me he hadn’t been there for a couple of months. I don’t know what I’d do if he was there. I can’t trust him, Victor. I don’t believe anything he says. He’s sent me an email a week after I yelled at him to stop harassing me. I still haven’t read it. I don’t want to hear his lies. I’ll only end up wishing they were true.”

 

Victor was very aware of their proximity now. His hand was still in John’s hair. He leaned it slightly to see if John would back out. When he didn’t, Victor pressed their lips together.  

The colossal amount of alcohol in his bloodstream prevented him from seeing what an unwise decision that was. He’d always found John Watson attractive but unreachable, and now he was letting Victor touch him. They kissed, and fumbled with each other’s clothes, and soon they were half-naked with John on top of him.

“You could top if you want.” he panted between rough kisses.

John broke off to look at him. “Yeah, okay.” he acquiesced.

“You don’t have to be nervous. I’ll show you.”

He sat up on Victor’s legs. “I’m not nervous. I’ve done it before.”

“Yeah I know you’ve had sex, John. I meant topping.”

“I’ve done that too.”

“I thought you said you’d only been with Sherlock?”

“Yeah.”

Victor was suddenly afraid the shock from tonight’s revelations would kill him. He sobered up a bit with this new bit of information, and pushed John off him gently.

“He let you top?”

“Yeah. What? Is that weird?”

“John, I may have seen him go off with a hundred people. Many of them I knew. I talked to them about him. I slept with him myself. I’m quite certain he never let anyone else-” He tried to think of a delicate way to put it. “‘in’.” he finished lamely.

John was staring at him, still in his drunken haze. Victor admired his beauty, but knew that he’d already forgotten about what they’d been up to a minute ago. He buttoned up his shirt in defeat.

“I don’t know what he did to you, but it sounds to me like his love is genuine.”

John was focused on his fingernails, as if they were an object of great interest.

“John” Victor started.

“I miss him, Victor.” John interrupted. He turned to Victor with unshed tears in his eyes. “I miss him so much.”

  
Victor hugged his friend, and patted his back, as he wept quietly. He was glad whatever they’d been about to do was no longer an option. These two men were clearly sado-masochists, and he didn’t want to get involved in such a mess. Casual sex, after all, was still a perfectly fine life choice. 


	18. Part III: Back to Earth

Last night was quite possibly the worst idea John had ever come up with. He groaned, and moved his arm to his forehead to protect his eyes from the vile sun. He’d managed to drink at least half the alcohol in London, and on top of that he’d made out with one of his closest friends. He was lucky he could find his way back home in the early hours of morning, and hadn’t passed out in an alley somewhere.

He squinted, and glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Two-thirtyseven. It seemed morning wasn’t the only time one could wake up. In addition, getting up could apparently take over half an hour. He rolled over on his stomach, getting tangled in the sheets, and shut his eyes once again. What was he going to do now?

Breaking up with Mary had definitely been the right thing to do. He had no desire to hurt her. That wasn’t to say he’d done it all for her sake. It was mainly a selfish decision. He didn’t want to settle. There it was. In the end, what it all boiled down to was Mary wasn’t good enough for him. Oh she was good in the sense that she was a very nice person, but she was...average. She wasn’t clever enough, interesting enough, passionate enough, beautiful enough. She was not Sherlock enough. She’d been just a placeholder, and seeing Sherlock for two minutes at his less-than-best was enough of a clue for John to realize it. Of course seeing him in the pub across St.Bart’s a few times, hearing Victor talk about him, and the texts- the silly but captivating texts- had made sure John felt like he was eighteen, and under Sherlock’s spell again.

He rolled over to lie on his back, then suddenly shot up without any consideration to his splitting head, and turning stomach. He strode to his bland living room, and picked up his laptop. He hadn’t made a conscious decision to read the email, but he knew that was what he was going to do. He tapped his fingers on the cushion of the sofa, waiting for the computer to turn on, and his email provider to open.

There it was. _Sherlock Holmes - Untitled_ , unread. It had been sitting in his inbox for weeks now. If he wasn’t going to read it, why did he keep it? He stared at the name forever with his heart aching. This was stupid. Sherlock had been only twenty-one when he’d done what he’d done. John had changed, matured, so why couldn’t he have? He could at least read what the man had to say, and judge for himself if it was believable before he condemned him for having been an insensitive child at one point in his life. Who was to say he hadn’t hurt the girls he’d been with just the same way Sherlock had hurt him?    

He clicked on the name with courage he didn’t know he possessed, and braced himself for heartbreak.

 

_Hello John,_

_I know you’ve asked me to stay away, and I promise that I will. However before I can do that, there are a few words I should say. I should have said them long ago I suppose but it turns out I’m more of an idiot than anyone that I’ve ever come across. So here goes:_

_I am sorry. I apologize for every little thing I have done to you in those few months that I should have spent showing you how much I cared about you. I loved you yet I didn’t realize it. It wasn’t a feeling I was used to, it made me angry more than anything. I’m not going to blame my parents, or my brother, or anyone else that I’d met before you for being the way I was. Perhaps I’d have stayed that way if it weren’t for you, but it were. You were there with your beautiful eyes, and shining smiles, and for some reason you loved me._

_At first, I wanted to stay away from you, but I couldn’t restrain myself. Then I just fooled myself thinking you were a convenience. I believed in my own lies so much that I didn’t realize I’d made the biggest mistake of my life until I reached London. Even then, I put all my energy into not thinking about you, and what I’d done. Safe to say, I didn’t succeed. It took me two days to finish the calculations on experiments that I knew I could have finished in one day because I couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d have said if you’d been with me. Every time I attempted to play a Paganini on my violin, it ended up a Mendelssohn, and you know how I abhor him. I dreamed of you every night, and thought of you every day. Cocaine helped a little, but I couldn’t bring myself to be a person I knew you’d despise, so I gave it up. I considered sex exactly once. The thought of someone touching me where your hands had been once was unbearable._

_In the end, I gave up pretending. I went to St.Bart’s, and I went again, and again. I found out your schedule, and followed you around. Watched you laughing with your friends, and walking alone. I saw you graduate, and wished I had the right to be proud of you, and could show off my doctor sweetheart to everyone who’d ever thought I would end up alone. Well, in the end, they were right,weren’t they?_

_When I saw you again, one year after giving up my stalking ways, what can I say? I got caught up. And you talked to me! So I thought I could perhaps have one more chance, but I was once again selfish, and caused the one person I didn’t want to harm more hurt._

_I never learned how to do relationships, and clearly I still don’t know. So for once, I think I will listen to you, and honour your wishes._

_I’m so sorry for everything I have ever put you through. I suspect everyone likes knowing they are loved, so I will say it hoping I’m not mistaken on this account as well. I love you John. I love you with all my heart, my body, my mind, with all my being. I’ve loved you since the day we met. I’ve loved you all those months I’ve spent hurting you. I’ve loved you for the past six years. I love you now, and I will love you until I die._

_Have the life you deserve with the person who deserves you, and don’t be sad. It’s my fault that it wasn’t me._

_Very sincerely yours,_   
_Sherlock_

  
It was dark outside by the time John moved his gaze from the love letter. He hauled himself to the bed, and closed his eyes after a whole day spent staring at words, with no food, no water, no thoughts to occupy his brain. He had only stared, unable to think, feel. Years of belief in the horridness and unreachability of the one person he’d ever wanted was shattered, leaving in its wake an empty hole in him which could only be filled in time. His brain turned off as soon as his head hit the pillow, overwhelmed with what he’d read. Forming new feelings was left to another day along with a new way to look at himself and the world.


	19. Chapter 19

One would think the days of being excited about being in love to the extent of not being able to keep down anything should have been long over for John by now. He’d thought so too. The only other person he could confidently say he’d loved was Mary. However he didn’t remember thoughts of her affecting him to the state of nausea. Even in the earlier days. And who’d ever heard of feeling this much anxiety and excitement after being in love for over half a decade? This was no different than the time he admired Sherlock from the doorway of Speedy’s that first day; his graceful posture, the dramatically bored expression on his angelic face, his beautiful lips…

He looked over Sherlock’s website, trying to decipher the passages the genius wrote when he wasn’t repeating every word of the love letter in his mind, or just plain daydreaming. The little he could understand from the cases reminded him of how Sherlock had taught him to create a mind bungalow (he had a mind palace but bungalow was the name he’d seen fit for John’s attempts.) John chuckled to himself. Sherlock could be very charming when he wanted. They had once baked thirteen cakes in one night for an "experiment" of his, which turned out to be a way to "welcome" Mycroft home for the holidays. They had giggled hunched over each other, watching the older man eyeing the deserts while acting like he didn't want anything to do with them. God, he'd even missed that sour-faced uptight sod and his stupid brolly.

He was sure Sherlock loved his brother after a fashion. Well any love the quirky man felt was always after a fashion, wasn't it? He claimed to have always loved John, but he hadn't hesitated to smash his love into smithereens, and then sweep it under the rug. John had always thought himself prone to self-destruction, but he was certainly no competition to Sherlock. It was so long since he'd thought of those days when he fancied his affections returned. He'd buried them, accusing his brain of wishful thinking, and had gone on to torture himself about how he wasn't worthy of such a man's attention.

Now he knew the truth. He'd put the man up on a pedestal, and hadn't suspected anything he'd said or done to be the actions of a scared, and up until him, unloved boy. Sherlock had been an idiot, and so had John. He'd welcomed all the affectionate behaviour without contemplating what lay beyond it. He'd refused to see how every time Sherlock held his hand, he'd also say something scorching, or why he'd lied about planning the sweetest, most thoughtful and expensive present John had ever gotten, claiming it was just an impulse purchase. Sherlock had been battling himself, and John had been blind. He'd been basking in the glory of the genuine love he sensed in the odd man, and that had been enough.

When he’d looked the website over twenty times, he stood up and made his way to the small bookcase he had in his bedroom. His books were mostly in the living room, however he kept his favourites next to his bed. It made him feel like he was in his sanctuary. When he desired solitude, he strolled in there, picking up something that he’d read a thousand times before, and relaxed behind the closed door.

There, in that small bookcase was a book he hadn’t been able to face for a while. The first edition pirate story Sherlock had given him was hidden behind the other books, secreted away from eyes who had no business looking into such private alcoves in John’s heart. He couldn’t bear a glimpse of his own. He couldn’t imagine what he’d do if he saw it in Mary’s hands, skimming the pages as if they housed only an old children’s tale, and not John’s weakest spot.

He pulled it out from behind the other volumes that weren’t nearly as meaningful, and just caressed it for a moment. Then he dropped down on to the floor, crossed his legs, and pored over the pages for a long time with a tiny smile on his lips.

 

The smile didn’t seem to be going anywhere that day, as he ambled through the city under a drizzle, going over every thought and feeling he’d ever had regarding Sherlock in his mind. It was a strange feeling to be so excited and so relieved at the same time. A burden had been lifted from his shoulders, only to be placed in his stomach.

He found himself in front of St.Bart’s, studying the pub patrons from across the street. He stood there until he had to take refuge from the speeding rain. He jogged in, and grabbed a seat at the bar when he saw the lady bartender who had talked to him about Sherlock before.

“Hello there,” She approached him with a smile. “John, was it?”

He nodded, smiling back.

“Anything to drink?”

“Yeah, Guinness.”

“Coming up.” She grabbed a glass, and filled it with the dark stout, and pushed it over to John. “You’re looking better.”

“Yeah?” He took a sip from his beer. “Well I guess I am.”

“Happy announcement?”

“What was your name again?”

“Sally.”

“No. No announcement, Sally.” He grinned, and gulped down half of his drink. “Although, I reckon I could announce my new found way of looking at life.”

One corner of Sally’s lips turned up. “And what is that?”

“It turns out my unrequited love wasn’t unrequited after all.” He’d no idea why he’d been talking about Sherlock so much lately. Alcohol could be one reason, but then again he’d gotten drunk before, and had never wanted to share his feelings with anyone. “So there’s been a boost in my self-confidence and happiness, you see.”

Sally frowned.

“What?”

“I thought...Well, I thought it was something to do with Sherlock.”

“It is.”

“Well, what do you mean it turned out it wasn’t unrequited? Didn’t you already know that?”

John hesitated. “No?”

“Dear lord. You guys are blind as bats. How can anyone not see how in love with you he is?”

“I- I didn’t really see him- Look, you don’t know what he’s done before so it wasn’t exactly my fault that I couldn’t see.”

“So why can you see now?”

“He told me.”

Sally looked at him, confused. “Just now?”

“Well- Yeah.”

“But he said he’d been in love with you for years.”

“It turns out he was, yeah.”

“Jesus, are you guys thirteen?”

John finished his pint, and chuckled. “Eighteen, maybe.”

“Another?”

“Yeah.”

Sally refilled his glass, and passed it to him. “So what now?”

Some time elapsed before John could answer. “I don’t know. I want to talk to him, but it’s a bit much, a bit overwhelming. Have you ever had someone you idealised so much that in the end you’re afraid to interact with them? It’s like he isn’t real anymore, just a dream I made up.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“And what will I say? Oh hello Sherlock, I love you too, take me to bed? What will we do? I can’t even imagine talking to him, let alone being with him, touching him.” He suddenly got a panicked look in his eyes. “Oh my god! This is real. I can tell him I love him, and hear him say it back. I can touch him again. Oh God!”

Sally put a comforting hand on his shoulder before he started hyperventilating “Calm down. Just take it slowly. Go talk to him, sort things out. You don’t have to marry the guy the second you reestablish contact.”

John took another big sip of his beer. “Right, you’re right. Talk to him. I can do that. Just talk to him.”

“Yeah, and believe me, he’ll do anything you say. He’ll wait until you’re ready. Hell, he’ll probably wait forever.”

John smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Do you know, once, he was completely distracted, contemplating something or other I suppose. His eyes were closed and everything. There were a few very good looking guys in the pub. I asked him, ‘Why don’t you talk to one of those guys? Just to have some fun.’ He opened his eyes a bit, looked over at the guys, but closed them again. I was like ‘Well?’ He was already lost in his own mind of course. I’m not even sure he was aware of what he was saying, but he said ‘They’re not him.’”

John downed the last bit of his Guinness, dropped some cash on the bar, and rose. “Thanks, Sally. I’ll see you round.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Good luck!”

 

The rain had let on by the time John made his way out of the pub. He hailed a cab, and directed the driver to Baker Street. However as soon as the drive began, he regretted his choice of transportation. He had no idea what he’d say, and now he only had about ten to fifteen minutes to think about it. Walking would have been a much wiser option.

His mind raced. What could one say to the love of his life after not talking to him- at least not in a civil way- for years? He struggled to form sentences that could be the beginning of a speech, but it was for naught. The cabbie left him to his fate outside a door that said 221B. He lingered on the pavement, eyeing the building apprehensively. This was it. He was here, and he had nothing to say.

As the minutes ticked by, his breathing accelerated, and his palms started sweating. He was afraid he’d pass out in front of Sherlock’s doorstep, when a stocky man came out of the door he’d been staring at for God knows how long. The man’s eyes found his.

“Are you here for Mr.Holmes, lad?”

John watched as he let out a loud guffaw.

“Don’t be afraid. Go in. He’s the best there is. He’ll help you with whatever problem you have.”

When John didn’t move, the man- _he must be one of his clients_ \- decided to help him with the decision. John was thrusted inside with a powerful push before he could open his mouth to protest.

“Go on!”

 

He swiveled where he stood to look at the cheerful man, but he had already vanished. Then with a start, he noticed the melody drifting from the upstairs flat. Mendelssohn. The corners of his lips moved up without his permission. Sherlock hated this piece with a passion. He’d always said it suited John because it was as bland as he was. John suppressed a light laughter. God, when was the last time he’d felt this happy?

He didn’t want the melody to end, so he climbed the stairs quietly, pausing his steps when Sherlock stopped playing for a second, only to continue when the music did. His heart almost stopped when he saw that the door was wide open. Sherlock was stood there, swaying slightly. His eyes were closed, and he was lost in the piece. John took in the sight before him. He was breathtaking in his worn out tshirt and pyjama bottoms, wrapped in a silk dressing gown. The streetlights illuminated his fine features, and his curls bobbed as he slid the bow back and forth on the strings.

As the rhythm crescendoed, Sherlock started moving about the room, his eyes still closed. John was transfixed by the sheer beauty of the moment. He felt like he was witnessing something other-wordly. He watched with rapture as the man got closer to him in his trance, and then he suddenly stilled. John knew his presence was noticed. They were so close he’d likely felt John’s breath on his neck.

Sherlock’s bloodshot eyes snapped open, and his jaw fell to the ground. The Stradivarius that he’d lowered from his shoulder half a second ago slipped out of his hand. John moved quickly to catch the precious instrument before it crashed to the floor. He knew how important it was for Sherlock. He couldn’t let any harm come to it.

Unaware of, and clearly not caring what had happened to his violin, Sherlock gaped at him. They beheld each other in silence for long minutes until John let a small smile show on his face. Sherlock’s gaze flicked to his mouth, and John smiled wider. He looked back up into his eyes.

“I- You- Um-” He gulped. “John?”

John’s expression softened even further, if it was possible. Now he knew he was not the only one who was scared, and it helped. He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, even as his fingers tingled with the incredibility of it all. He held the gaze of the discombobulated beauty who was standing not ten centimeters from him. This was where it really started. He readied himself, inhaled deeply, and then breathed the simplest word in the English language as if it was the most meaningful thing ever uttered.

“Hello.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Hello.”

Sherlock’s head turned a fraction, and his eyes flicked to the hand on his shoulder. Thinking the gesture agitated the man, John made to remove it. However before he could move, a bigger hand came to rest on his.

“No! No, please don’t!”

There was a panicked, almost pleading look in Sherlock’s eyes that made John’s heart ache.

“I mean-” He let go, and slowly lowered his hand. “I’m sorry.” He sounded like a vulnerable child for a moment before his whole bearing changed, and he stalked away in a fury, his dressing gown fluttering behind him.

John watched him pace the room grumbling to himself.

“God, I’m such an idiot. Who do you think you are, Sherlock? Don’t let go?” He dropped himself down onto his leather chair with his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands.

John surveyed the clearly agitated man for a bit longer. He had fallen silent now, probably took refuge in his mind palace, still berating himself. John approached him apprehensively. He didn’t quite know what to do to calm him down. In addition, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to. His love certainly didn’t preclude him from wanting to see Sherlock affected by all this, really physically affected, something he could witness with his own eyes. He’d never want to see him hurt, but this was different. It was like proof he was loved back, that Sherlock cared, that he was not the ice-man John had thought him to be for so many years. It still pained John, but he also felt relief. God, he was consumed by how much he wanted Sherlock to love him. And not just love him, but have his whole life, whole world view revolve around John, just like his did around Sherlock.

He forwent the idea of comforting the man, who was now sitting with his legs up on the chair, his arms wrapped around them, and his head sunk between, in favour of taking the chair opposite him. It was an old-fashioned armchair with holes in it, completely in contrast with the one Sherlock was occupying.

 

 _Now, for the even harder part._ If he wanted to sort out things, he needed to be less of a lovesick puppy. Sherlock was the one who had been in the wrong here, not him. He couldn’t throw himself into his arms, and live happily ever after. They needed to discuss their situation like mature adults.

“Can we talk?”

He’d tried to sound in control, but the question had come off more like a cat’s mewl. In any case, it wasn’t even noticed. He cleared his throat, and tried once again to rouse Sherlock.

“Sherlock, can we talk?”

The dark head finally rose, the blue-green eyes locked on his. He fit his head on top of his knees, and a nervous swallow preceded his answer.

“If you like.” His voice quivered on the last word.

“I read your email.”

“Oh.”

“Yesterday.”

“Oh.” He paused as if to gather his courage. “Did you believe it?”

“Yeah. Yes I did. It was- it was very nice. Thank you.”

Sherlock scoffed. “You shouldn’t thank me. I’ve done nothing worth thanking for.”

John fell silent at that. Sherlock was right after all. Thanking someone for loving them was utterly pointless.

 

“I didn’t believe you before, you know. Before, when you were texting me.”

“That I’d missed you?”

“Yeah. I thought it was a game, that you were looking for sex.”

Sherlock pondered that for a moment before he replied. “That makes sense. It’s what I’d done before. So why not again? Yeah.” He nodded to himself.

“You could have explained better.”

“Well, it’s obvious to both of us I imagine that I have no idea how to deal with human beings.”

John tilted his head in sympathy. “It’s not surprising, you know. When nobody gives you a chance, how would you learn?”

Sherlock’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “You gave me a chance.”

“Yes, well. We were young.”

Sherlock laughed. The sound that came from his mouth was nothing cheerful however. It was a terrible, self-hating mockery of a laughter. “Youth accounts for callousness?”

“No. I guess, it doesn’t.”

Sherlock smirked.

“It just means that a lot of time has gone by.”

“So you forget?”

“No, no I don’t. Well, perhaps I will one day. But the thing is, in time, people change, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s gaze fell to the floor, but he was clearly still listening intently.

“However true your words would have been years ago, you’d’ve never said them back then. You didn’t even want to know that they were true. I didn’t see that. I was just a boy in love who wanted to be with the boy I was in love with. I didn’t really see how much you didn’t want that-”

“No!” Sherlock interrupted with a fierce look on his features. “Don’t, please don’t put yourself at fault. You did nothing wrong. That’s how you’re supposed to be at eighteen. Happy to be in love, and be loved in return. Nothing else matters. Just you and whoever you love. And you were more perceptive than you give yourself credit for. You knew about my feelings before I recognized them. The fact that I was a bitter whore doesn’t excuse my behaviour.”

He was breathless at the end of his passionate speech, his eyes boring into John’s soul, begging him to heed his words.

“I’m not saying I was at fault.”

Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed, his posture slackening visibly.

“I’m just saying I didn’t see, and it’s true. I didn’t see. Even if I had, I probably wouldn’t have understood, but I do now.”

Expectant eyes fell on him.

“You were just a kid, Sherlock. Twenty-one and very sexual perhaps, but you were a kid nonetheless. Emotionally, at least. You had an idea about who you were, and what people were like, and you stuck to it. That’s what kids do. I changed it, but you didn’t want to face that.” John smiled. “Your comfort zone was not the homeliest maybe, but it was still a comfort zone. No one likes to be confronted by the idea that they were wrong all along.”

When Sherlock remained silent, John prodded him.

“Sherlock? You have to talk now. I doubt I’ll ever be able to bring myself to talk about this sort of stuff again.”

“Sorry. I just don’t know what to say.”

“That’s a first.” he smiled at Sherlock who looked taken aback at the show of geniality.

He considered how much one small smile affected the supposedly aloof man, and found himself wondering how he’d look truly happy.

“I still love you.” he blurted.

The air around them stilled as Sherlock sucked in a breath, looking totally gobsmacked. His gaze turned vacant, and his body went into a state of catatonia.

 

John wanted to let him absorb the information at his own pace. However after a few minutes, he began to worry.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock came to his senses with a start. “Hm?”

“Are you alright?”

“Um- what? Yes. No. No. I don’t think I am.” He narrowed his eyes. “What did you just say?”

“I still love you.”

Before Sherlock could go into another paralysis, John spoke again.

“Sherlock?”

“Right. Yes. You love me.”

“Yes.”

“You love me.” He muttered a few more words under his breath which John couldn’t make out before he piped up with a question John didn’t know the answer to. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why? Why do you love me? What could you possibly love about me?”

John’s voice suddenly got louder. “Jesus, Sherlock! How should I know that? Do you know why you love me?”

Sherlock was yelling right back. “Of course I do! You are the kindest, the wisest, the most beautiful man I’ve ever known! You are the only person in the whole world who’s ever seen anything good in me! You make me want to be better than what I know to be the best I can do! I love you because there’s no one else like you in all this world!”

John sat silently, gaping as Sherlock passionately told him why he deserved to be loved. Then he knew.

“It’s you.”

“What?”

“It’s you. I love you because you’re you. I can’t love anyone else because they’re not, Sherlock, and believe me, I’ve tried. I mean I loved Mary in a way, but…” He paused, trying to be more eloquent but he failed. “She wasn’t you. It was not the same. It wasn’t passionate. It didn’t hurt me. It couldn’t erase you from my mind.”

 Sherlock gulped. They stared at each other both out of breath even though John was the only one who had spoken.

 

Eventually Sherlock managed to find his voice again.“Past tense?”

“What?”

“You said ‘she wasn’t you’, not ‘she isn’t you.’”

“Oh. Right.We broke up.”

Sherlock looked wrecked. “I’m sorry about those texts I sent her. I didn’t mean to hurt you again. I was just-”

John cut him off. “No, Sherlock. It wasn’t because of the texts. I broke up with her two days ago”

“Oh.”

“I can’t be with her when I’m in love with someone else.”

 

They sat in silence for about an hour, Sherlock processing and analyzing the conversation, and John coming to terms with what a life-changing step he’d taken. In the end, Sherlock was the one to break the tranquillity.

“So what now?”

“Hm?”

“Have you forgiven me?”

John didn’t answer.

“Oh. So I just live with the knowledge that you love me but you will never be with me. That’s a clever punishment.”

“No, Sherlock. I- I want to be with you. I do. I just-”

“You just can’t forgive me.”

“Not yet. I’m willing to work on it. Look, you have to understand, I never thought you’d hurt me back then. I trusted you completely, blindly. I thought if nothing else, you’d let me down gently.”

Sherlock bowed his head, not able to bear to look in John’s eyes.

“I realize that’s not who you are now. I know you’ve changed, and I believe when you say you love me, but I can’t just rush into a relationship with you. I don’t really know this new you, do I? And you don’t know everything about me anymore either, even with all your deductions.”

Sherlock looked up to see John smiling at him.

“We have to get to know each other again, and see if the other person is underneath it all still the one we love.”

Sherlock made to protest but John held up his hand holding him at bay.

“I want you Sherlock, but I need you to show me I’m not wrong this time. I want that complete trust I had in you back. We need to rebuild it, and not to be crushed this time.”

“So you’ll be with me?” Sherlock asked. He looked scared, as if he was a child, and John was dangling candy in front of him. He didn’t quite know if the gift was genuine or the cruel adult was taunting him.

“We’ll talk, and have coffee, and see each other.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Then-”

Sherlock’s eyes were gleaming with hope. John had promised himself he wouldn’t give in so easily, however he couldn’t help but get lost in the dream as well.

“Then, I’ll be with you.”

 

Sherlock made to rise out of his seat but restrained himself in the last second. John wondered what he’d meant to do. Perhaps jump in his arms? He put his head back on the back of the armchair, and closed his eyes, imagining Sherlock in his lap with his arms around his neck, and John’s arms around his waist. Sherlock remained quiet as well, in all likelihood lost in his own dreams about what the future held.  They enjoyed each other’s company after many years of yearning for it, with no sounds to ruin the mood  except the cacophony of the city they both loved.

  
When John opened his eyes again to survey the room, he found Sherlock folded in his chair, sleeping peacefully. The sight warmed his heart, and the corners of his mouth lifted. He watched him for a little while before he quietly made his way out of the flat with a light heart, and a hope for their future bubbling up inside him.


	21. Chapter 21

The last patient had just left as the rain started pattering against the window. John hurried to put his jacket on, and wished his colleagues a good evening. Normally, Sherlock didn’t mind waiting for a few minutes for John to put his business in order. This was one of the changes in the man that had surprised him at first, however soon he’d gotten used to it. Sherlock seemed aware of how much effort John had to put into his specialty training, and he was supportive to say the least. John suspected this extremely understanding Sherlock was a product of his forgiveness campaign, and would soon disappear into the ether, and he wanted to enjoy it while he could. Still, he didn’t have any desire to let the man get soaked just to soothe his still healing ego. He ran to the lift, and caught it just before the doors closed.

Outside, his eyes flicked around for a tall man wrapped in a silly- Oh who was he kidding? Not silly. Sexy. Awfully sexy- coat, but he wasn’t at his usual spot, right outside the emergency exit. The rain was picking up pace. John was about to run back inside to wait for him when he glimpsed the tousled locks he’d know anywhere across the street in the pub. He smiled, imagining all the times Sherlock sat there watching him. Most people would call stalking creepy, but no one could ever claim John was most people. To him, it was sweet.

He crossed the street quickly, and entered the warm bar. Sherlock spotted him immediately, and waved him over with the biggest grin on his face. That’s how he looked now. A constant grin on his face, a far cry from the distant boy he used to be. If anything, he acted very shyly. Whenever John noticed signs of desire on his face, the next minute they were replaced by restraint. He knew Sherlock couldn’t have changed this much, and he desperately wanted the boy he’d fallen in love with back, but it was too early to encourage his possessive behaviour. It would eventually make itself known, he was sure. He could see Sherlock was already beginning to lose control over his overly nice demeanour.

 

He gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek as he sat down next to him in the booth. The grin on his beautiful face froze at the unexpectedness of the action. John knew it was a little mean, but he couldn’t suppress the chuckle that came out. Sexual athlete Sherlock Holmes paralysed by a kiss on the cheek. Who could ever see that coming? He patted him lightly on the shoulder, and the slightly slanted bottomless eyes came into focus.

“How are you?”

His eyelashes fluttered for another second before he answered. “I’m alright.” He looked back at John, and resumed his heart-warming grin. “How was your day?”

“Busy. Tiresome. Boring.”

“John, you’re the one who chose this profession.”

The doctor sighed. “Yes, I know.” His gaze fell to his lap. “I thought it’d be more exciting. You know bullet wounds and near-deaths and stuff, not a million appendectomies a day.”

Sherlock let out a merry laugh.

“Yeah, you can laugh of course. Not all of us are consulted by the police about triple murders and armed robberies.”

Sherlock laughed again. “John! You’re pouting!”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are!”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are!” He made to touch the downturned corners of John’s mouth before he stopped himself. He cleaned his throat. “Anyway, I was thinking we’d take a walk in Regent’s Park today, but it seems the weather’s not on our side.”

John looked out the window, disappointed that he didn’t get to feel Sherlock’s fingertips on his face. “Yeah, I guess not.”

“What shall we do?”

“Want to see a movie?”

Sherlock looked uneasy at the suggestion.

John spoke again before he could accept against his wishes. “We could watch one at home.”

Relief dawned on the asocial creature’s face. “Alright. Baker Street?”

“Okay.”

 

They had just arrived at Sherlock’s flat with bags full of Chinese that could possibly fill the stomachs of a family of five, when they heard footsteps running up the stairs.

“Sherlock?”

John started at the familiar voice.

“Sherlock, are you home?”

“In the kitchen.”

Greg Lestrade took a step inside, and stopped dead when he took in the sight before him. “John?” He sounded as if someone had just told him he’d won the lottery without even buying a ticket.

John smiled at his old friend. “Hello Greg.”

Sherlock put down the take-out carton he was holding on the counter before he spun around to face Lestrade. “Who the hell is Greg?”

They both stared at him.

“That’s his name.” John stated.

“Is it?”

“Sherlock, you’ve known him for years! You work with him for God’s sakes.”

Sherlock shrugged, and returned to taking cartons out of the plastic bags. “What is it?”

John heaved a heavy sigh, and let it go. In truth, he was only acting put upon. This was the closest to his real self Sherlock had been since they’d decided to work on their relationship. He was overjoyed to see the quirky man rude and aloof again.

Greg couldn’t take his eyes off John, but he answered Sherlock’s enquiry anyway. “There’s been another one.”

John watched as Sherlock’s fingers stilled for a second before he continued with his ministrations. He put one pair of chopsticks on one tray before he opened the drawer to take out a fork for John. “Sorry, you’re on your own tonight.”

“Sherlock-”

“I’m busy, Lestrade. I can’t do your whole job for you. Now, off you go.” He grabbed the trays, and strode into the living room, clearly dismissing Greg.

 

“Sorry about that. You know how he is.” John smiled at the bemused man. “How long has it been, Greg?”

Greg smiled back at him. “Too long, mate. It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

They shook hands. Then Greg’s eyes flicked to the living room door for a second.

“I didn’t know you still talked to Sherlock.”

“I wasn’t.”

“So, this is…?”

“We’re trying to see if it’ll work out this time.”

“Oh. Well that’s great, mate! I’m chuffed for both of you. God knows that bastard needs someone to mediate between him and the real world.”

Sherlock’s indignant voice drifted to the kitchen. “You realize I’m only in the next room, and not deaf?”

They both laughed before Greg lowered his voice to a whisper. John leaned in to hear better.

“I’d have warned you to be careful, John, but I’ve never seen him refuse a case before. Not even when his brother was in the hospital for surgery.”

One corner of John’s mouth lifted in an all-knowing smirk.

“I thought he lived for the puzzle and the adventure.”

John glanced at Sherlock who was busy pretending to ignore the conversation in the kitchen, but John knew his ears were pricked to hear the smallest sound that came out of their mouths.

“He does. But I find he has one or two other reasons as well.”

Sherlock’s alabaster skin turned a pinkish hue on his cheeks, and there was a small smile playing on his lips. John beamed at the view before he turned back to Greg.

“We’re fine, Greg.”

The policeman’s voice returned to its normal level. “Well, I’m off then.”

John walked with him to the door. “We should catch up sometime, have a pint or two.”

Greg grinned. “Yes! Let’s! Give us a ring when you’re free. Sherlock has my number.” He was already out the door, and running down the stairs.

“Cheers!” John yelled after him, then took the chair across from Sherlock who hadn’t started eating even though he’d been sitting there for a few minutes now. He smiled at the silly but considerate man, then took one of the trays from him, and dug in.

 

As the evening progressed, John realized Sherlock was getting restless with every minute. They had, somehow, both relocated to the couch, but unlike the other times they sat together, Sherlock wasn’t subtly trying to inch towards John. In addition, he wasn’t correcting the television, and seemed to be preoccupied with something else completely.

John took Sherlock’s fidgeting fingers in his hand. This managed to rouse the man from his deep thoughts.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm? Yes, I’m fine.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

John let go of Sherlock’s hand abruptly. “Right.”

The pensive man caught his receding fingers.. “Wait! Sorry!”

John let him wrap his huge hand around his smaller one, and looked at him expectantly.

“I was just…”

“You can tell me anything, Sherlock.”

“Yes, I know.” He sighed. “I was thinking about the serial killer.”

He was looking everywhere but at John, clearly ashamed that his mind could travel elsewhere while John was right there next to him. John felt a warmth spreading in his guts. He slid his fingers between Sherlock’s, and caressed his knuckles with his fingertips.

“Sherlock, it’s okay. You’re allowed to think about things, you know.”

Sherlock didn’t seem convinced. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to ruin our date.”

John lifted his chin with his free hand to look into his eyes, and smiled at him. “You didn’t ruin anything. Go on, call Greg. Tell him you’re on your way.”

“But I promised-” He paused his protests as his face lit up with excitement. “Oh I’m an idiot!” He moved out of John’s reach, and jogged towards his bedroom.

John rose from the couch, and stood up at the other end of the corridor to see what his suddenly manic beauty was doing. Oh he loved it when Sherlock was like this, energy pouring out of his every movement. It was exhilarating. He watched as the madman approached him with a mischievous gleam in his eyes and an umbrella in his hand. He tossed the umbrella to John, and slipped on his coat, while John was stood there mesmerized.

“Come on, John!”

John put on his jacket, and followed him out of the building into the rain. “Where are we going?”

“To the crime scene!” Sherlock sing-songed.

 

Inspecting the body of a recently murdered woman, running after Sherlock to keep an eye on his safety, and knocking out a man who’d tried to punch the crazy detective amounted to a night well-spent in John’s opinion. It was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done (that is, if you didn’t include getting a hand job from the said man in the middle of a small town café). Afterwards, they giggled like school-children eating fish and chips, and remembering the look on Lestrade’s face when he found John sitting on top of the serial killer, and Sherlock questioning the man to death.

They strolled the streets in the warm summer night until 221B was within sight. Their pinkies were grazing each other with every step they took. When they reached the door, Sherlock went quiet. He obviously didn’t want the night to end, but was afraid of making a mistake.

Affection filled every part of John’s body, and he couldn’t help but turn the apprehensive man around, and enclose him in a tender hug. Sherlock tentatively brought his arms up around John, and placed his hands on the shorter man’s shoulder blades. They stood like that for a long moment before John broke the embrace.

They piped up simultaneously.

“I should go.” “Do you want to come up?”

Sherlock’s face fell. “Oh.”

John brought up a hand to caress his cheek. “Soon, I promise.”

“Okay.”

He planted a peck on the pouting lips. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night.”

  
John watched him standing there dazed as he touched his fingers to where John’s lips had been a second ago. He smiled, and made his way back to his flat with a bounce in his gait. Tonight, he’d fall asleep thinking of Sherlock’s cupid’s bow lips under his, and dream of happy things.


	22. Chapter 22

God, he didn’t want this perfect day to end. Granted, it was no different from any day in the past three months they spent together, but that didn’t mean it was any less special. The beginning of a relationship was always exciting, he supposed. However, when it was with the man you’d been longing for your entire adult life, it was something else. After so much hardship, they were almost there. Of course, an established relationship would require work as well, but once he felt like routine was setting in, he’d know that he’d arrived.

Sherlock was almost back to his old self now. The only difference was he wasn’t afraid to show John how much he cared about him. He was affectionate, and even considerate most of the time. For example, right now he didn’t want John to leave, but he knew it’d be selfish to keep him for himself all the time. So he was going to let him go be with his friend. John wished he would’ve been selfish, or at least gone with him. He knew Victor, after all. However, Sherlock had no interest in socializing for no reason. When John had asked before, he’d just said “And what will that achieve, John?” and gone back to his experiment.

 

The feral child clung to his hand until they reached the meeting point.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yup.”

Their lips met for what could never pass for a parting kiss in any sense of the word. They stood in the middle of the street, snogging for two minutes until Sherlock finally broke off.

“Have fun with your silly little friend.”

He planted a final kiss on John’s forehead, and vanished into the darkness. John smiled after his madman, then entered the pub.

 

Victor and a scrawny, sinister looking man were seated together in a booth, both grinning at him. They had both clearly witnessed the spectacle outside. John made his way across the crowded room in big strides. He might have blushed if it was just Victor’s eyes glinting mischievously. However, he had no idea who the small man next to him was, and he didn’t appreciate presumptuous people.

He held out his hand for Victor when he reached the table. His friend shook his hand, before he spoke up to introduce his companion.

“This is Jim Moriarty, an old friend of mine. Jim, Dr.John Watson.”

Jim leered at him, a smirk on his face. “Hello, Dr.Watson.”

John nodded curtly, then took a seat next to Victor.

“Was that Sherlock Holmes outside?” Moriarty drawled out in a smooth voice that made John’s hair stand on end.

“Yes.”

“Ah. You’re a lucky man, aren’t you? No one’s been able to catch up to him before.”

John gritted his teeth. “How do you know him?”

“He’s a dear old friend. He helped me make a lot of money.”

“He’s never mentioned you before.”

“Oh, I’m sure he hasn’t.” He winked at John as if to say _There’s a lot you don’t know about him, John. He’s been around._

John was about to make a retort when Victor interrupted to dissipate the growing tension.

“I’m going to the bar. Anyone want a pint?”

“No, thank you.”

John stood up with him. “I’ll help you.”

 

“Who is that prat?”

“Just someone I used to hang out with in uni. He might come across a bit intense, but he’s a nice bloke.”

John scoffed.

“Oh come on, John. You know Sherlock’s past. Are you gonna be mad every time someone brings it up?”

“He doesn’t even know me!”

Victor patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll leave soon. I bumped into him and we thought we’d get a drink and catch up. He said he had stuff to do anyway.”

John took a sip of his beer as they made their way back to the booth, a little pacified. “Yeah, alright.”

 

After five or ten more minutes of Moriarty watching John like a hawk, a gorgeous woman with dark hair, high cheekbones, and shining blue eyes came to pick him up. The definition might have been the same one would use to describe Sherlock’s features, however this woman didn’t look like his beautiful boy. She had a sinister countenance just like her whatever-the-hell-they-were, Moriarty.

John breathed a sigh of relief when they were gone, and put away thoughts of the slimy man for later inspection and possible discussion. He’d been busy with Sherlock for months. He wouldn’t waste this outing with Victor, fixated on trivialities.

 

The next evening after work, John took a cab to Baker Street as per usual. After a nice meal, they were drowsing in front of the TV, Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his. Suddenly, a villainous voice from the movie that was on made him think of his encounter yesterday.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Who’s Jim Moriarty?”

Sherlock jumped up, completely alert. He stared into John’s eyes. “How do you know that name?”

“He was with Victor yesterday when I got there. Why?”

“You have to stay away from that man, John. Promise me, you will stay away from him!”

John saw the panic in Sherlock’s eyes. “Yes, okay.”

“Promise me!”

“I promise!”

Sherlock relaxed a bit.

“So how do you know him?”

“From back in uni.” He paused, clearly struggling with the decision of whether to tell John the truth before he continued. “He sold drugs to me.”

“Oh.”

“You know me. You know how easily I get bored. And bored I was, John. Bored to death. I was eighteen, and well you know…” He trailed off.

John encouraged him to continue. “Yeah?”

“Well, I was bored, and he was there. So I bought drugs, I did drugs, and what do you know? I was addicted to drugs.”

John gathered his lanky body in his arms, his chest to Sherlock’s back, and held him as he talked.

“I thought I’d made the best choice in the world by indulging in them when I was high. When the high wore off, I’d find myself in a stranger’s bed. A man’s, if I was lucky. Of course, I’m not the nicest person in the world, so even if it was a man who wanted more than one night, I dismissed them the next morning.” He sighed wearily. “I don’t like people, John.”

John caressed the wrists he was holding. “I know, love.”

Sherlock’s head whipped up, a frown on his beautiful face. “Love?” He sounded outraged.

John laughed. “Sorry. It felt appropriate for some reason. Go on.”

Sherlock shook his head, and resumed his prior position. “Anyway.” he said pointedly.

John giggled some more.

“Unsurprisingly, I lost myself in this sex and drugs haze for about two and a half years. Until someone found me passed out in a pub toilet from an overdose.”

John inhaled sharply, and held on to Sherlock tighter. He wanted to say something, but he knew Sherlock, and Sherlock knew him. He could probably tell every question John had about this, and he would explain without being prompted. Sure enough, he continued.

“Mycroft put me in a rehabilitation facility after that. It didn’t do wonders for my mental health, of course. So after the withdrawal period, Mycroft graciously allowed me to leave. On one condition. I’d have to go home, and stay there for as long as it took. I hated him for it but it was better than being stuck in a madhouse for weeks, so I agreed. I had no intention of complying with his cleansing programme, but then…”

“Yeah?”

“Then I met you.”

John brushed away a stray lock from his brow, and planted a soft kiss on his head, then went on to combing his fingers through his hair.

Sherlock closed his eyes, contented, and let himself be petted for a few minutes. Eventually his confessions proceeded.

“After I came back to London, Mycroft agreed to pay my rent until I graduated but no longer. So I had to find a job, which was more difficult than you can imagine. Nothing was interesting enough, and I couldn’t waste my days doing something I couldn’t abide. Then I ran into Moriarty once again. He tried to sell me drugs. When I declined, he offered me a job instead. I needed the money, and well, I love chemistry, so I took it.”

It took everything in John to restrain himself from reacting in a way he knew would make Sherlock close up. He knew the man didn’t like talking about himself, and this was difficult for him. Probably more difficult than it was for John to hear it. He couldn’t even imagine what that must have been doing to his poor boy.

“I made his drugs. Until I had the presence of mind to see what the consequences of my actions were. Who knows how many people I helped ruin? I only realized this when I thought of what you would think of me, if you knew. So I gave it up. I gave it up and told him to stay away from me.”

He turned around in John’s arms to face him.

“I swear, John, I gave it up. I will never touch another syringe, a bag of powder, or a pill.”

John caressed his hair softly. “Sh, alright. I believe you.”

“And you have to stay away from him! He’s so much more than a simple drug dealer. He’s dangerous, John.”

“I will.” he promised. “As long as he stays away from you.”

 

Sherlock dropped his head to John’s chest. The two of them stayed entwined the rest of the evening, exhausted from the intensely emotional conversation they had. Neither of them could endure a discussion like this, if it weren’t for the other one, and they were both aware of this fact. They fell asleep in each other’s arms shortly, content in the feeling that they had each other.

 


	23. Chapter 23

John opened his eyes to an aptly named Sunday morning, utterly rested and ready to enjoy what was to come. A new day was no longer something to face but to look forward to. He stretched luxuriantly with a smile on his face. He had plans for today, and tonight. He’d been waiting so long to have Sherlock inside him, be as one again. He could have done it before, but he’d reasoned their relationship needed rebuilding, which was not incorrect. However, if he was to be honest with himself, he hadn’t wanted to let Sherlock off the hook quite so easily. Of course, he also had no plans to be honest. Nobody would like feeling like a hypocrite, after all. He had to feel like all he had were good intentions.

In any case, there was no need to consider all this anymore. He was ready. He was more than ready. He was bursting with the desire to do more than put his arms around a clothed Sherlock, and put his tongue in his sinful mouth. And tonight was the night. They were going to spend the whole day together, and then John was going to let Sherlock take him to bed. He was sick of being the one in control. He was finally going to get his Sherlock back in full force.

 

He took the tube to Baker Street, and walked from the station to 221B at a leisurely pace, a whistle on his lips. Just as he put his finger on the doorbell, the door was opened, and the woman he’d seen with that spider Moriarty a couple of days ago came out. She smirked, pushed past John, and got into the car that had been waiting for her in front of the building. He gaped after the car until it was well out of sight, then went inside, and closed the door behind him. He leant against the door, and was trying to make sense of what he’d seen, when he heard Sherlock’s voice calling to him.

“John, is that you?”

He peeled himself off the door, and started climbing the seventeen steps up to the flat. “Yeah, it’s me.”

 

When he entered the room, he saw that Sherlock had already engrossed himself in an experiment on the kitchen table. He touched his shoulder lightly, as he went around him to put the kettle on.

“Who was that?”

“Hm?”

“The woman who’s just left.”

“No one important.”

John watched him for a long moment, but Sherlock’s eyes were focused on the microscope. He knew he wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of him, because he clearly believed the woman to be of no consequence. John believed everything he said. Sherlock deserved that. He’d tried so hard to make things right, and John didn’t doubt his devotion. However, that didn’t stop him from wishing the man was less reticent.

He decided to let it go, and thought he did a great job at it. However, he didn’t even realize the plans he had for the night had flown out of his mind altogether. They spent a quiet day in the flat, as nice as the ones they always had, and neither John nor Sherlock thought anything of it. John, too busy not thinking about the woman; Sherlock, not even aware of what he might have had that night.

 

The next day found John in the same mood, that is until he saw Victor at the hospital. He knew he was being silly. Sherlock was gay for God’s sakes, and he didn’t want anything to do with Jim Moriarty. Yet he couldn’t stop himself, and nudged Victor in the side.

“Hm?”

“Do you know who the woman we saw with Moriarty is?”

Victor furrowed his brows. “Partner of sorts, I guess. Why?”

“No reason.”

“John-” he started in a warning tone.

“I’m serious. I was just curious.”

“You’re not thinking about going after her, are you?”

John was repulsed by the idea. “What? God, no! How can you say that?”

“Well, who knows what’s going on between you and Sherlock? You boys have the weirdest relationship I’ve ever seen.”

John opened his mouth indignantly. “No, we don’t!”

Victor rolled his eyes, and turned to walk the other way.

John ran after him. “We don’t!”

“Yes, okay. You don’t. You are the most normal couple there is. Happy?”

John grumbled, but let the matter go.

“Why are you curious about _the_ woman then?”

John gave him a quizzical look. “ _The_ woman?”

“Well, she was always a bit of a floozy. You know, slept with everyone in sight. Although, I mean I’m not really qualified to judge, I guess.” Victor grinned. “Cor John, you’ve surrounded yourself with whores, haven’t you?”

He let out an exasperated sigh.

Victor laughed. “Alright, alright. Well that’s what we called her back then. The woman.”

“Is she with Moriarty?”

“No. I don’t think she’s ever with anyone. Not one to be caged, she is.”

“Hm.”

 

The conversation he had with Victor about _the_ woman played in his mind all day long. He couldn’t blame Sherlock for not telling him every little thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t about to do that any time soon either. In any case, they had far too many emotional conversations recently. He didn’t want to bring up the past again. That didn’t mean he could stop his curiosity, however. He resigned himself to the frustrating itch he felt, and carried on with his day.

He’d managed to shove the irksome thoughts to the back of his mind when he finally got to Baker Street that evening. With take-out bags in hand, he rang the doorbell, wondering how long it would take the incurably lazy devil to get up off his arse, and let him in. Even if he wasn’t immersed in a study of something or other, he took forever to get the door. He was truly the laziest sod to ever grace this earth.

John rang the bell more insistently this time, having decided to keep his finger on the damn thing until Sherlock couldn’t stand the noise anymore. When he finally heard footsteps from behind the door, he breathed a sigh of relief and ceased his pestering. The door opened. He was about to start bitching about how Sherlock left him out in the cold for hours, when he saw that it wasn’t him at the door. It was that woman again.

She gave him a suggestive smile. “Hello darling.”

John bristled at the brazen demeanour the woman displayed, and pushed past her with no gentless. She tripped a little on the step outside the door, taken aback by the force John exerted on her. She’d just opened her mouth to say something when John shut the door in her face. He climbed the stairs in a rage, taking three steps at a time.

“Sherlock?” He yelled.

When there was no answer, he couldn’t help but raise his voice even louder.

“Sherlock? God dammit! Where are you?”

He stomped from room to room until he finally decided to enter the last remaining one. He’d never been in Sherlock’s bedroom for some reason, so he hesitated a moment before he pushed open the door.

 

The sight he witnessed drained his spirit away. He felt breathless like he was punched in the gut. The sheets had come off the mattress, and fallen on the floor. There were remains of white lines on the nightstand next to an overturned picture frame. And Sherlock was sprawled on the bed, naked except for his dressing gown, which had fallen from his shoulders. He had a far away look in his eyes, and a blissed out expression had replaced his normally carefully schooled one on his features.

John stood stock still, trying to comprehend what was happening, until Sherlock spotted him.

“John, oh you’re finally here!” He drawled. He turned on his side to face the shocked man. “John!!” he called petulantly. “Why are you all the way over there? Come ‘ere!”  He tugged on his sleeve, trying to pull him into the bed.

John didn’t move. He felt like his body had turned into stone. He didn’t know what he looked like, but he was sure it was something that gave away his feelings, or would have give them away if Sherlock was in his right mind.

“John, what’s wrong?” he whined, still clinging to his sleeve.

There was no way he could stand this anymore. He snatched his hand away from Sherlock’s reach, and stormed out of the room. He could hear whimpers following him. Sherlock was calling out to him in a despairing voice.

“John! John!! Please! John!”

He didn’t heed the cries, as he darted out of flat, and down the stairs.

 

He needed to get away. Get away, and think. He needed to make sense of it all. Sherlock had promised him he wouldn’t touch drugs anymore. He’d sounded so earnest too. So what had changed in the space of a few days? This woman seemed to be visiting him regularly. There must have been times he didn’t run into her. And now, she’d been with him in that state. Had they gotten high together? Sherlock had said he tended to bed women as well when he was intoxicated. Was that what had happened?

He pulled at his hair, as his fingers pushed through them in frustration. He’d somehow walked all the way to Waterloo without realizing. He dropped himself down onto the first bench he came across, and attempted to order the chaos that were his thoughts.

He couldn’t stand seeing Sherlock that way. All loose and relaxed for reasons that were not him. He couldn’t bear even the thought of being betrayed once again. He would have to talk to Sherlock to solve this, but he couldn’t face him now.

  
He stayed at that spot, letting the wind caress his face, and calm the fires of fury burning in his heart. When the cold started seeping into his tired bones, he rose, and made his way to his lonely flat. He went to bed as soon as he was- well, he couldn’t bring himself to call it home. He pulled the sheets over his head, and drifted into a restless sleep. He’d deal with everything in the morning. First, he had to get ready to face the day.


	24. Chapter 24

_Sherlock - Missed Call (3)_

_John, I can explain everything. Can we talk please? 22:03_

_I swear I didn’t break my promise. 22:40_

_John, please say something. Anything. Let me know you’re alright. 23:58_

_Sherlock - Missed Call (2)_

_I’m coming over. 02:21_

 

The constant chirping of the phone was beginning to get on his nerves. He should have turned it off, or at least turned down the volume, but he didn’t feel like unwrapping himself from the cocoon he’d created in his bed. It was warm under the covers, and all his troubles were far away, out there. He knew who had woken him up with his incessant calling and texting, and he knew he’d have to face him, but that didn’t mean it had to be done just yet. The wound was too new. He needed a good night’s sleep before he thought the situation over. Only then he could talk to Sherlock without either breaking down or breaking his nose.

He was about to drift back into sleep when he heard someone knocking on his door.

“John!! John, open up!”

John took a deep breath to calm the growing anger within. Sherlock was banging on his door- he looked up at the clock on his nightstand- at 02:46 on a weekday as loud as he could, screaming John’s name at the top of his lungs.

“John!! Please! I know you’re home!”

John slid out of bed gritting his teeth. He was going to end up breaking the bastard’s nose after all.

 

He pulled opened the door, and couldn’t restrain himself from yelling back at the man, even though he’d gotten up to stop the racket in the first place.

“What!”

Sherlock was caught off guard by the sudden displacement of the door, and reeled forward onto John. The angry man hauled him inside, depositing him in the living room with a bit more force than necessary. Sherlock flew halfway across the room, barely holding himself up on his feet, before the momentum was lost. He staggered a little, and then managed to right himself.

He gaped at John, not quite believing the fury he saw in his movements. Seeing the look on Sherlock’s face, John’s sleep-addled brain finally caught up with what he’d done.

“I’m sorry. That was…barbaric of me.”

“It’s fine.” He fixed his shirt, and his suit jacket. “I should have taken the time into account. I didn’t realize you’d be sleeping.”

John felt the power draining from his legs. He seated himself at the edge of the couch.

“I wasn’t. Not really.”

“I called, and texted.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“Oh.”

“I’m really tired. I don’t know if I can handle this right now.”

“John, please. You don’t have to say anything. Just listen to me.”

 

John took in the disaster that was Sherlock’s appearance. He looked like shit. There was no other way to describe it. His face was a sickly yellow colour. His hair was matted, and some of it got stuck on his forehead with sweat. He had missed a hole while buttoning up his shirt. He had two different socks on. Worst of all, his eyes looked like they belonged to a man who’d lost all hope. Yet here he was, still trying.  

 

“You look horrible.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Sherlock snapped. “You have to listen to me!”

John stood up, and started walking in the direction of his bedroom.

“You need rest. So do I. I’m going to bed. You can have a shower, and then take the couch. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“John-”

“No, Sherlock. I truly can’t deal with this right now. Just- Tomorrow, okay?”

Sherlock gazed into his eyes for a long moment, pleading without talking. When John didn’t give in, he acquiesced. “Okay. Tomorrow. Thank you.”

John nodded, and then entered his bedroom.

 

Even he was not convinced that he could rest tonight, but he had to try. Of course, it was in vain. He ended up imagining all the likely scenarios of what his beautiful boy could have been doing with that vile woman, and trying to guess what explanations Sherlock could come up with to get away with them. The only thing that was slightly helping was, strangely, Sherlock’s presence in the next room. John listened for the shower and then his breathing. He could almost hear the faint inhaling and exhaling coming from the other room, which was ridiculous of course. His breathing sounds wouldn’t reach him. It’s not like Sherlock was lying next to him.

Would Sherlock ever lie next to him? The thought of never seeing him again scared John more than anything, but what could he do if all Sherlock was going to do was apologize and beg for another chance? It wasn’t even about his pride anymore. He would gladly sacrifice that to keep the love of his life with him. The problem was he wasn’t sure he could take much more of this. He could feel his sanity fraying to the point of no return. If he took Sherlock back again, there was no guarantee there wouldn’t be a next time, and another one, and another one, and so on. He would end up a husk of a man, tolerating life just for the sake of the odd moment he could forget about everything else in Sherlock’s arms. He was weak. The only reason he’d let go last time was because he'd thought he wasn’t wanted. Could he leave when Sherlock fought for him? He wasn’t quite so sure. He’d have to try his hardest not to fall for any more games. He would listen to what the man had to say tomorrow, and judge accordingly. He prayed to whatever deity was willing to help him for there to be a logical explanation for all this.

 

When the first rays of the sun shone on his pillow, John was still awake. He pushed himself up off the bed with energy he didn’t have. There was no need to pretend either of them was sleeping anymore. He stepped out of his bedroom, frightened that it would be the last time he’d be seeing Sherlock. The man in question turned his face towards him when he heard the door open. In addition to all the signs of fatigue he’d already born a few hours before, he now sported dark circles under his lovely eyes.

John pushed himself to say something. “Good morning”

“I don’t know about good, John.”

He sat up in a slouched position, something he never did, as if he had all the world’s burdens on his shoulders. In all likelihood, it probably felt like that.  His bleary eyes followed John as he approached to take a seat on the other edge of the couch. They stared at each other for a long moment, each expecting the other one to start the conversation. Eventually, Sherlock’s sad voice broke the silence.

“Have you read my texts?”

“No.”

“I didn’t do cocaine, and I didn’t sleep with Irene.”

“Irene, is it?”

“I’ll swear on anything you want. I didn’t. I would never touch her.”

“Oh so you haven’t before?”

Sherlock fidgeted with the button on his sleeve. “I have. But that was years ago, and I was high. I told you about it all. Why does it matter now?”

“You were high yesterday.”

“Yes, but-”

“So you didn’t do cocaine, what was it then?” His voice got louder as he continued. “Heroine? Acid? What?”

“John, I didn’t touch anything, I swear.”

John crossed his arms, and waited for an explanation.

“Yes, I was high, but it was against my will.” He took a deep breath before he started his story. “I know Irene through Moriarty, and I hadn’t seen her in a long time. She showed up out of the blue a few days ago, asking me for help.”

“Help with what?”

“A case apparently. I didn’t want anything to do with her, but-” He looked down at his lap, ashamed. “I couldn’t help it when she said it was impossible to solve. She’s fairly intelligent, you see. So I thought if she didn’t know what to make of it, it must be a good one.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock looked up, a hopeful glint in his eyes. “You believe me?”

“It sounds plausible.”

Sherlock gave a small smile for a second, and then  it slid off his face again. “You know the Birlstone case?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it turns out Moriarty was behind that, and he’d sent Irene to keep me away from it.”

“So you worked on her case?”

“Yes. Until yesterday that is.”

“And why haven’t you told me about it?”

“She’d been associated with Moriarty before. I couldn’t be sure she still wasn’t. Of course it was stupid of me to take her case to begin with, but...”

“So?”

“I didn’t- you couldn’t-”

John was getting angry again. “I couldn’t what?”

“I didn’t want you around Moriarty.” he mumbled.

He paused for a minute to ponder the logic behind the sentence, before he realized there was no logic behind it, only sentiment. He nodded minutely, accepting the explanation.

“So how does this all lead to-” He made a hand gesture to encompass everything he’d seen yesterday. He couldn’t bring himself to articulate it.

“Right, well. So Moriarty wanted me to back off, and I reckon he’d already been harbouring some resentment towards me because I’d threatened him with a knife before.”

“You what?”

“He’s not one to leave you alone once he has his claws in you, John. I had to do something to get out of that life.”

“So you did what?”

“Put a knife to his throat and told him to stay away from me.”

“Ah. I can see how that might earn you his eternal hatred.”

“Yeah, he wanted to get away with the Douglas murder before I could interfere, so Irene was sent to distract me. ”

He shivered with the knowledge that he’d talked to a murderer, sat at the same table as him, shared drinks.

“And I think most of all, he wanted you to see me like that.”

John looked at Sherlock’s suddenly small frame, and felt a pang in his heart. He gulped.

“How did I see you like that, Sherlock?”

“I was careless. Irene administered some sort of depressant while I was studying a piece of evidence.”

“How?” His voice quivered. He was appalled.

“Stuck a needle in my arm. It took effect pretty quickly too. She must have taken my clothes off and done some decorating after that. I can’t remember.”

John was dumbstruck. He tried to understand how someone could be so full of venom to go to all that trouble. What had this Moriarty character intended to do with the results of his plan anyway?

“Why? Did he want you for himself?”

“I think he just wanted to see me hurt.”

“Did you ever…” John hesitated.

Sherlock caught his meaning before he could finish his question. “God, no! I wouldn’t touch him even if he threatened to kill me.”

“But you don’t like women, and you slept with women.”

“Yes, well. I think even if he were after that, he’d have tried to get me to go to him.”

 

Silence fell after that. John turned over all the explanations Sherlock had given him in his mind, while the other man waited patiently to be judged. John believed every word Sherlock had said from the start. There was no doubt in his mind after seeing the pain Sherlock was in, and he could see what kind of people Moriarty and this Irene woman were. He was glad he’d listened to his boyfriend, and not taken off without giving him a chance to explain things.

He smiled when he realized he used the word boyfriend in his mind to describe Sherlock. He had been watching John the whole time, and he quirked an eyebrow when he saw the happy expression on his face. Still, he remained silent, not wanting to disturb John’s thinking process. John locked eyes with him and his smile grew. Sherlock’s lips quirked tentatively, and when John took his big hand in his, the hesitant man finally let his smile become apparent as well.

 

“Thank you, John.”

“What for?”

“For listening to me. I know you didn’t have any reason to give me another chance.”

John stroked his long, elegant fingers. “It wasn’t a chance, Sherlock. I… It was wrong of me to leave without hearing what you had to say. But I was just gobsmacked. I couldn’t…”

“It’s alright. I can understand why you did what you did.”

“And you weren’t in your right mind to talk anyhow. I had every intention of talking to you later, but I was just scared.”

He held John’s hand to his mouth, and left a tender kiss on his knuckles. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. This is how it’s supposed to be. We have to trust each other, and talk out things before we decide on any action. This is what a relationship is.”

Sherlock’s whole face brightened. “A relationship?”

John laughed. “Yes, of course. What else would I call- Oomph.” He suddenly found himself surrounded by six feet of detective, scrambling to breathe. “Sherlock- Sherlock, I can’t breathe.”

Sherlock loosened his grip, but didn’t let him go.

John laughed again. “You idiot. We’ve been in a relationship for months now.”

“Have we?”

“Yes!”

Sherlock was silent for a moment before he gathered his courage, and pulled back to face John.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

He planted a chaste kiss on John’s lips, then made to lean away, but John grabbed his arms before he could move, and gave him another peck. Another one followed it, and another. Before they knew, the innocent kisses had turned into something else entirely. Something fiery and passionate, and they were devouring each other. It was finally time to let go.

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

The last step in the process of reestablishing the trust between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson was finally in sight. John had imagined it’d be a giant leap he’d have to take with his eyes closed, but he was wrong. Well, half-wrong at any rate. It was the easiest thing he’d ever had to do. The waiting and the fussing all seemed to be gratuitous now. He’d been ready to brace himself for the finish line, but he’d just breezed across.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was so beside himself with joy that there was literally nothing going through his mind as they kissed, licked, and fondled. What was there to think about anyway? John had listened to what he had to say, believed him, and was now back in his arms- well on top of him to be more accurate-, and he just sensed that this was it. All he had to do after that was lose himself in the sensations. He’d waited for this for so long, John’s mind, John’s heart, John’s body, and they were finally all his.

He was careful though. Careful, even through the blissfully blank view he had of the situation. He wasn’t about to take John for granted. He had been wrong so many times before, so the best thing was to let John set the pace. He was the only person Sherlock had ever let himself be led by. John had taken his hand, and he only had to follow to get to his happy ending, and he’d do it again and again.

 

John nibbled on his slightly parted mouth, and Sherlock let him. He planted kiss after kiss on those plush lips, and Sherlock returned them in kind. His hands roved over Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock groaned in pleasure to let him know it was good.

He raked up Sherlock’s shirt without bothering with the buttons, and took his nipples between his fingertips, as he pushed his tongue inside the cupid’s bow that Sherlock had drawn for him. John was burning up, and the wetness in the other man’s mouth was nowhere close enough to quenching his thirst. He knew what he needed. He pulled away his fingers from Sherlock’s pectorals, and grabbed his wrists. Then he moved those big, elegant hands from his shoulder blades to his arse. When Sherlock only caressed as an answer, John leaned into his ear.

“You don’t keep your promises Sherlock.” he breathed.

Sherlock stilled for a second, pondering what he could have done wrong. Taking advantage of the moment, John took his earlobe in his mouth, and sucked. Sherlock moaned in unison with the movements of the tongue grazing his ear, and squeezed John’s arse in ecstasy. John smiled. He was almost there. He let go of the earlobe, and whispered in a gruff voice.

“You’d promised to bend me over a desk and fuck me as I screamed. Whatever happened to that?”

Sherlock growled, and grabbed John’s arse cheeks roughly, and pulled him in as if to crash his body into his. John grinned triumphantly. His Sherlock was finally back in every sense of the word.

 

After that, he happily relinquished all control, as Sherlock went into complete instinct mode, and turned off his higher cognitive functions. He was an animal now. The beast in bed he used to be sprang forward and suddenly John was sitting up on his lap deluged by the hurricane Sherlock Holmes was. Sherlock attacked his mouth with his tongue, his nipples with his hands, and his denim clad arse with his own still clothed cock. He grinded up into John with abandon, biting, licking and sucking on every piece of skin he could get his mouth on as it made his way south.

He pulled back for one second to pull John’s shirt over his head, and then took one of his nipples between his lips. John’s eyes fell shut, and he gasped as he rutted back into Sherlock’s crotch. He felt euphoric. Sherlock had finally lost his mind in him and that was all he’d ever wanted.

As Sherlock moved with no thought to how close to the edge of the sofa they were seated, they slid further and further, and finally dropped to the floor with a thump, Sherlock on top. However, he paid no heed to the little _ungh_ sound John let out as the madman was by now completely lost to the world. He continued grinding into John, and sucked on his neck, leaving marks of deep purple in his wake.

Eventually, unconsciously deciding the friction they were getting wasn’t enough, he sat up, and hauled John onto his feet. His eyes flicked around the room for a moment, then he turned John around, and grabbed him around the waist, attaching his front to his back. He continued his ministrations on John’s neck as he forced the shorter man to shuffle forward towards the desk that was in the corner of the dark room.

 

John panted harshly, and let the man direct him however he wished. He opened his eyes only when his knees hit the edge of the desk. Before he knew what was happening, his vision was covered with a wooden surface. Sherlock had bent him over the table. He felt his pyjama bottoms and pants coming off in a haste, and felt Sherlock’s harsh breaths on his ear.

“Do you know how much I missed your tight little arse, hm?”

John shuddered as he felt Sherlock’s low voice rumbling in his chest. The slender man moved his erection back and forth on his arse cleft, and he moaned in answer. His own cock was rock hard, and trapped between the desk and his stomach. He wanted more friction but he wasn’t about to interfere with Sherlock’s plans. His beautiful boy would give him what he needed when he felt John deserved it.

He enunciated every word with a thrust as he spoke again in his smoky voice. “I. am. going. to. wreck. you.”

“Yes.” he grunted. “Wreck me, Sherlock. Fuck me.”

Sherlock grabbed one of his wrists that were resting on the desk, and brought it his hole.

“Touch yourself. I’ll be right back.”

 

He was about to protest, saying Sherlock had no idea where the lube and the condoms could be, but he stopped himself. Who was he to argue with the man’s genius? He surely could find them in ten seconds, if not less. He massaged his hole, feeling it flutter under his touch. He was trying to remember how Sherlock had felt in him, when the man- and the cock- in question arrived.

Sherlock was flushed from head to toe, his trousers long gone, his button-up halfway open, his hair sticking up every which way. He had a feral look in his eyes that sent shivers down John’s spine. When he reached John, he pushed him back into the position he wanted, and moved his arm back on the desk. He replaced the smaller fingers with his longer, graceful and lube-coated ones and immediately pushed one finger in. John let out a small grunt, not having had anything- including his own fingers- in there for a long time.

Sherlock leaned into his ear, without pausing the pumping with his finger.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

He grunted again, but this time not out of discomfort. Sherlock had found his prostate. He grinned into John’s cheek, and did it again.

“Oh God, yes, Sherlock! Yes!”

“More?”

“Yes! More!”

Sherlock slid in another finger, and another as the table kept rocking with every push and shove.

“You’re so tight, John. Why?”

“No one’s touched me in years.”

“No one?”

“No man.”

“Ah. But you’ve let women touch you.”

John only panted harder in response as books and pens started falling down on the floor. Sherlock grabbed his hair lightly, and pulled his head back. They both knew it was just for show, but it affected John as if it were real anyhow.

“That was a mistake John. You’re mine.”

“Yes, yes. I’m yours.”

“You will never let anyone else touch you.”

“No.” He breathed as he pushed his arse against Sherlock’s fingers, asking for more.

“Ask me, John. Beg me.”

“Fuck me, Sherlock. Please. Fuck me.”

Sherlock let go for a few seconds to slide the condom onto his cock and lube it up. Then he grabbed John’s head and turned it to kiss him roughly on his lips.

“As you wish, my treasure.”

He gave him a predatory grin, grabbed his hips and pushed into his arsehole.

 

John moaned in pleasure as Sherlock found his prostate in his first try. A genius _and_ amazing in bed. God, he was the luckiest bastard on earth.  He let go of every inhibition he ever had and screamed with every one of Sherlock’s thrusts. The man himself was in no better condition. His legs were not enough to hold him up anymore, so he was draped over John’s back, using all of his energy to please his boyfriend. He hadn’t had sex in years, so it was very difficult to not end things prematurely.

“Sherlock, I’m- uh- so close. Touch me please.”

Sherlock let out a relieved breath, and insinuated one of his hands under John. He grabbed his neglected cock, and started stroking in rhythm with the movement of his hips.Neither of them could talk anymore, as John pushed with his last strength into Sherlock’s hand, and back onto his cock.

He came first, and Sherlock followed after a couple of more thrusts. After they both came down off the most spectacular orgasm they’ve had in ages, Sherlock rose slightly, and promptly fell back on his arse. Ignoring the slight sting it generated, he pulled John onto his lap, and lied down on the carpet. They stayed like that in silence for at least half an hour with Sherlock’s arms around John. His lips ghosted on the smaller man’s face, leaving tender kisses every once in a while. John hummed contentedly with every little peck.

 

Eventually, Sherlock’s back started to protest the hard floor it was on, and they had to relocate to John’s bed. John brushed Sherlock’s stray curls off his eyes, smiled up at him.

“What?”

“You are a man of your word, Mr.Holmes.”

Sherlock busted a delighted laughter. “Yes, indeed. One could say I always come through.”

John laughed with him. “You know, I’d been trying so hard not to fantasize about this for so long that it had slipped into my subconscious and seeped into my dreams. I may have dreamt of it a hundred times or more.”

“Move in with me.”

John sucked in a breath, taken aback by the non-sequitur. “What?”

“Move in with me. To Baker Street.”

“Yes.” He blurted, and blinked at the answer his brain had given without his permission.

“Yes?” Sherlock asked again, hope blooming in his tone.

“Okay.” He paused. “Yes, definitely.”

Sherlock smiled at him. “Good.”

 

A few moments passed before he spoke again. His expression was still soft but it also had a seriousness to it now. He combed his fingers through John’s hair.

“I will never let you go.”

John held onto him tightly. “I’ll never leave.”

  
They fell asleep, John on top of Sherlock, both exhausted but utterly happy. There was no room for doubt anymore, no call for a safety net. The only thing they needed to be tangled in now was each other. Their breaths gradually synchronized, heralding a future where they would always be in harmony, even when they drove each other up the wall, or faced forces that meant to separate them. They would always be together, just the two of them against the rest of the world.


	26. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have finally come to the end! Thank you so very much to everyone who's been following this fic, and everyone who's left kudos and comments. You have made me want to write more :) 
> 
> There will hopefully be more fics, and I would love it if I could have willing betas for them :) So if anyone's interested, hit me up on tumblr. My username is lar3000 there. And if anybody just wants to talk about fics, Sherlock, or life in general, that would be even more grand! So message me! 
> 
> I love you all, and thank you for all your support! I hope the ending is to your liking.  
> Cheers!

This was a bad idea. How good could this bloke be? Mrs. Forrester had insisted that he could solve any problem that was set before him. As long as he found the problem interesting, that is. She thought her case was definitely worth looking at, but who knew with these vigilante types? Apparently, the guy was an arrogant sod too. She didn’t understand why people would consult him, if he didn’t even bother being nice to them. However, according to Mrs.Forrester, consult they did.

She paid her fare, and got out of the cab in front of a door that said 221B on it. The knocker was left sideways. She righted it, and then tapped on the door. When no one answered for five minutes, she tried ringing the doorbell. She was about to give up and leave when the door opened slightly. A pair of intense blue-green eyes, from which she couldn’t tear her gaze away, widened for a second, then roved all over her face and body quickly.

“Mr.Holmes?”

The exotic-looking creature smirked at her for some reason before he finally deigned to speak up.

“You are a client.”

“Um, yes.”

“Come in.”

He opened the door all the way, and ushered her in and up the stairs. His very expensive looking dressing gown billowed behind him as he ran ahead of her. Cor, he had a nice arse.

 

Sherlock Holmes showed her to a chair placed between two much more comfortable looking armchairs, and perched on the edge of one of them. Why couldn’t she just sit across from him? Mind-reading and weird rituals. Yes. That was exactly what she needed; more complications.

He fixed his eyes on her, making her feel like she was being interrogated without words. When he had looked to his heart’s fill, he piped up.

“Go on.”

“With?”

He scoffed, and rolled his eyes as if she was an idiot. “Tell me what you want my help with.”

“My name is-”

“I know what your name is.”

“What? How?”

“That is not important.”

She gritted her teeth, and tried her hardest not to ruin her chances here before she even started. This man was the most irritating man she’d ever come across. He was sitting there looking as if he had a stick up his arse, staring at her like she was a piece of dirt stuck to his shoes. He clearly needed to get laid. Maybe then, he’d loosen up a bit.

She gathered her patience, and started explaining her problem.

“I’ve been receiving a pearl from an anonymous person every 6th of December for the past five years.”

The detective’s ears pricked up, and he sat a little straighter if that was possible.

“This year, I’ve also received an invitation to meet my ‘benefactor’, but they still wouldn’t write anything about who they were.”

“I see. So you hope that I will suss out who this person is before you feel safe enough to meet them.”

“Yes.”

“I will need to see these pearls, and-”

 

The consulting detective’s instructions was interrupted when the downstairs door opened with a thud. He jumped up off his seat, and started talking at the speed of light.

“But we can talk about all of that later. You have my email address, I assume. Just send me your details, and I’ll come and check out the pearls.”

He grabbed her arm to pull her to her feet.

“Off you go now!”

“But, Mr.Holmes-”

At that moment, she caught a voice she hadn’t been able to get out of her head for years.

“Oh sorry, you’re with a client.”

She turned around to make sure she wasn’t hearing things.

“John?”

“Mary?”

Holmes’ hand was still gripping her elbow, so she had to push it away to approach John Watson, the man who had destroyed her when he’d left her and the love of her life.

John laughed, and gave her a big hug. “What are you doing here?”

She fixed her hair unconsciously, and noticed a fuming Sherlock Holmes had appeared right next to them. What was going on here? Why was John coming into this madman’s flat with hands full of groceries as if it was his own? And what made Sherlock Holmes suddenly so livid?

“She’s come to see if I would take her on as a client, John. Honestly, keep up!”

John turned to Holmes with a warning glare. “Sherlock.”

The overgrown child crossed his arms and huffed, but John had managed to shut him up. So somebody could get through to him, after all.

“Um, yes. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Oh, that’s great!” He cut himself off, not happy with that train of thought. “I mean, obviously it’s not great that you need a detective to help you, but we’ll be happy to do whatever’s necessary.”

Holmes, who had looked like a child on Christmas when she’d told him about the situation, was no longer happy with the turn of events.

“And um, what about you?”

“What do you mean?” John beamed at her, waiting for an explanation.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh.” He laughed. “I live here.”

 

It was then everything fell into place. SH. The SH that had been texting John non-stop all those years ago was this SH. Sherlock Holmes.

John had never told her who SH was. She’d assumed that it was a woman from his past, of course. The man had never seemed interested in his gender before, how could she possibly guess? Back then, he had claimed that the matter had been dealt with, and the texts had stopped. However when they had broken up, she knew it had been because of that woman- now corrected to man.

And now here he was, ten years later, living with his secret admirer. Looking happier, and more at ease than he’d ever looked when he’d been with Mary. For god’s sakes, the man even looked younger. He was 34! How was that possible?

“Oh. So you two are?”

He pulled the detective to his side, and put an arm around him. “Yup. We work together as well.” He gazed at his partner with such an enamoured look that even after all these years, Mary’s heart hurt at the sight of him with someone else.

 

Something must have shown on her face, because now Holmes was watching her with pity in his eyes.

“Anyway, Ms. Morstan. John and I have things to do, so if you could-”

“Sherlock!”

“It’s alright. I have to go anyway.” She turned to Holmes. “I’ll send you the details as soon as I get home.”

“We’ll be there.” John answered in his stead. “It was a really nice surprise, Mary!” He gave her another hug. “I reckon, we’ll be seeing more of each other for a few days.”

“One day at most.” Holmes grumbled.

“Yes, love. One day.”

“Hey!” He looked at him indignantly.

John giggled. Giggled! Like a school girl!

“Right.”

Both their heads turned in her direction.

“I’ll be leaving. Thank you for-”

“Yes, yes. Alright.” Holmes pushed her softly towards the door while John watched on with a smile on his face. “We’ll see you soon, Miss Morstan. Good evening.”

 

As she made her way down the stairs, she could hear more giggling coming from the flat.

“Sherlock! Stop it!”

“Why?”

“Mary-”

“She’s left, John. Now, I can smell her perfume on you, we will have to take care of that.”

John laughed, and then suddenly there was no more sounds, because he was clearly cut off by something being placed in/on/or in the general vicinity of his mouth.

She stepped outside, and pulled the door closed behind her. However much she had hurt when John had left her all those years ago, she couldn’t help but be happy for him now. He had found his “one”, and Mary was grudgingly glad she had not stood in the way of that. She believed in love, and in soul mates, and now all she could do was hope that she’d also find her SH one day.


End file.
